


Kill Me, Jerusalem

by kaulayau



Series: Go and Kill Me [1]
Category: Detroit: Become Human (Video Game)
Genre: F/F, F/M, Father-Son Relationship, M/M, Slow Burn, lick lick the ground ground, memory-sharing via sweaty palm
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-06-16
Updated: 2019-02-23
Packaged: 2019-05-21 19:57:26
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 28
Words: 51,014
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14921868
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/kaulayau/pseuds/kaulayau
Summary: Forgetting who you are to become what someone needs you to be — maybe that’s what it means to be alive.





	1. I’ll Pick an Age When I’m Gonna Disappear

**Author's Note:**

> **DISCLAIMER:** The thoughts and opinions you may come across via the author’s notes of this unpolished video game fanfiction do not reflect the thoughts of the author. Or, more accurately, they no longer do. Not in any way, shape, or form. 
> 
> Much of it is extremely rude and full of unnecessary profanity. Much of it is an insult to human intelligence. Much of it is factually untrue. 
> 
> That being said, the author’s notes are still an integral part of the story, in one way or another, and have remained attached to each chapter. Deleting them would insinuate that such things had never existed at all. Which is also pretty false
> 
> I’m sorry about the notes. They’re, like, super angry and basically just. Lies. And they’re really quite embarrassing. It’s not the part of myself I want to portray, but this is a fanfic lol it’s there 
> 
> Sorry about the quality of this story too lol it’s wack and old but I guess it’s fun
> 
> (My goodness, the M-dashes! How can you get through this at all???)
> 
> Thank you!

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I am incredibly intrigued by David Cage
> 
> EDIT JANUARY 21, 2019:
> 
> Sorry for all the weirdly specific, mean-spirited source-material criticism in the coming chapters’ author’s notes. Not deleting those A/N, because doing so would be counter-intuitive, but, well. It was kind of nasty. And a tad bit odd. I don’t think I’d agree with my past self lol
> 
> But thank you all for sticking with this regardless! <3
> 
> EDIT JANUARY 6, 2019: whoa ok 
> 
> EDIT JULY 24: so much has changed
> 
> EDIT AUGUST 13: I have learned so dang much
> 
> (Trigger warning in this chapter for suicide. Right off the bat. Detroit is a messy game with messy topics and it’s carrying over here. stay safe
> 
> EDIT AUGUST 13: like this whole thing requires a trigger warning. literally. take care of yourself)
> 
> Thank you so much for reading! Spoilers ahead.

He wonders what they think about. Do they think like humans, maybe? Fuck, well, maybe they’re living, sentient beings. _That_  has been very well established in this period of time. Still, Hank watches Connor get on his knees and brush down the fur on Sumo’s back with his hand and wonders what he’s _thinking_. Where does his mind go? What does he see? When androids touch the ground, do they measure all the grains of dirt and dust and shit, or do they think about the grass, or the stones, or the silt? Do they see in color? God, how else would they see, if not in color? Numbers? Ones and zeroes and all that fucking jazz?

Well, he knows these — _they,_ androids are _they_ — feel. They feel something. That, he’s sure, has made itself clear. It’s almost like they’re. People. Ha. Like... those girls that escaped from the Eden Club. Like the — that — Markus and — North, that’s her name. Those are their fucking names. (He can only ever keep track of one.)

(And yeah. Yeah, he wonders if they fuck.)

Then there’s Connor. _Connor_. Hank can’t really bring himself to think about him much. He’s there. And Hank doesn’t know. He doesn’t fucking know. Connor is Connor. Hank is... tired. He’s been tired.

Yeah. It’s best not to —

Yeah.

He looks up at the ceiling.

Cole would be _nine_ right around now. Cole might’ve liked Connor the most out of everyone. Cole wasn’t a —

Wait _._ _Wait._

There’s a click — a cartridge in a chamber. It’s a _gun. Wait_  — come on — stupid _android._  It’s too fucking _late_ in the night for this —

 _Fuck_. This fucking jackass better not _shoot his fucking dog_ — he doesn’t _care_ if it ends up a fucking _accident_ — why the _fuck_ would Connor shoot a fucking dog if he couldn’t shoot a fucking girl — fucking _people_ — he turns around and hopes he’s fast enough to fucking beat his fucking — “ _What the fuck do you think_ —” plastic motherfucker with no moral fucking compass motherfucker motherfucker —

Oh.

Connor’s turning to face him, and Hank realizes that the pistol isn’t pointed at the ceiling, or the ground, or at Sumo, or at _Hank_ , but — Connor holds the gun and regards it, his fingers tight around the trigger — 

His words are close to silent. “I didn’t see you, Lieutenant.”

Then he puts the gun to his jaw.

“ _Connor_ —” Hank hears himself roar — he lunges forward, just to grab the fucking — just to take it from him — Sumo runs in front of him — and Hank doesn’t get there in — god _dammit_ — _no,_   _no_ — the gun fires and silver _flashes_ — the bullet doesn’t hit anyone —

They’re at a standstill.

Why didn’t he notice?  _Why didn’t he ever fucking notice_ — he was too fucking drunk. Too fucking  _selfish._ Too fucking stupid _. A_ ndroids aren’t human. Androids aren’t the same, or he should’ve — “You —” Hank starts, but it doesn’t matter. What is he going to do? What is he going to _do?_  ”Listen. _Listen to me._  You need to think right.”

Connor looks at the gun like it’s moving. “It’s not giving me a choice.”

 “You need to give that to me.”

“I — can’t.”  

“Give me the _fucking gun now_ , Connor.”

His hands are shaking, stiff and cold — he might lower it — “Lieutenant, this is something I have to do, and —”

“This isn’t some fucking mission.” Wait. _Wait_. This is _wrong_ — he’s got it wrong.

“I don’t have time for you to interrupt.”

He needs to adjust. He needs to start it over. He lets air into his lungs — lets it out — “Son, it’s — focus on me. Focus on _me._ ”

Connor squeezes his eyes shut. “No. You won't change my mind. ” 

“You need to put the gun _down_ —”

“You don't understand the situation.” He is cold and distant. “I’m supposed to be _alive._ ” Oh, fuck. “I’m supposed to decide everything for myself — but —” 

“That’s right,” Hank says. “That’s right, and you do, Connor, you do —” This is a fucking stupid fucking kid — he’s a _kid_ — blue blood runs in his veins and his heart is made of metal, but that barely makes a difference —

“I don’t know what to do.” He’s not like this. He’s not fucking like this. Something happened and Hank was too damn slow to catch it. “It won’t let me understand it —”

“No one’s asking you to understand anything.” What else can he _say?_

“I’m still their machine.” He’s level, he’s desperate, and he has himself at gunpoint again. “I’m nothing but a machine. I’ve been following their orders without knowing. I thought I wasn’t, and... I don’t _want_ that anymore. I don’t think I do.”

“Connor, believe me, you’re not —”

“Sometimes,” Connor says, his face an earthquake, like the barrel of the gun sears bullet holes in his chin — “I hear — _voices_ in my head, and — I don’t know if it’s me.”

He might be — no. No, he’s not too late. Connor is still here. He’s still here. “It’s you.” Hank doesn’t know the first thing to fucking say — this boy is _breaking in front of him_ — there is no rule for this — no instruction — he doesn’t _understand_ — and yet — he _does —_ and — _fuck_ , he can’t let this happen. He can’t fucking let this happen. “Of course it’s you, Connor. I have no doubt. Just —” what can he do, what can he fucking _do_ — “listen to me.” Nothing else has filled Hank with such urgency — nothing except — God, that was a lifetime ago — guilt climbs up his throat —

“I don’t know if it’s real. I can’t find the difference between — what’s real and not. I don’t think I ever did.” Hank thinks he sees all the cracks in Connor’s skin — “I thought they’d leave me alone after I broke it down —” his eyes close again, almost in agony — “they’re still — watching me.” His eyes reach the ground. “It’ll kill me unless I do it myself.” He shakes his head — writhing, aching — 

Hank hates it. He _hates_ _it_ — whatever _it_ is — “You can. I — I’ll _—_ Connor. Just give me the gun, and —”

“I —” he grimaces, expression twisting — “I can’t bear it.”

He... “Son —”

“I don’t want you to —”

“Just — please —”

“This is the _only thing I have in my control_ ,” Connor shouts, sudden, rabid, sharp. He breathes it out of him. Stabilizes like turning gears. “This is the only thing I can do that I know I want to.”

“But it’s not,” Hank tells him. “Trust me. You don’t want this, Connor.”

He hesitates. It doesn’t sit right. “Is that what you told yourself?” He sounds… jaded. Bitter. “Is that what you told yourself the first time? The second time? The third time? You didn’t stop. You didn’t _want_ to stop. If you hadn’t failed each and every try, then we wouldn’t be having this discussion now, would we?” That’s not him. That’s not him. He’s fucking — he’s not himself. It’s not him. “The world got too fast for you, Lieutenant. You just wanted to make it all — stop. Nothing would stop for you — nothing made sense — so you needed to end it. After your son —” he chokes on his own voice. “After —” his eyes are on the ground now, and Hank can’t move. “I — I’ve finished everything I had to do. But now —”

“Connor…” 

“They’re —” he is blank and still — “they're telling me to — _hurt people that don’t deserve to be hurt_ —” and he looks as if speaking sends bolts up his spine. “It — they told me to hurt — Markus, on the day we won freedom. They told me —” he nods — almost like he’s gone insane. “There’s something — wrong with me. I can’t fight it anymore.” He's going to fucking burst. “I don’t want to hurt — you.”  

No. No, he’ll — oh, God —

Hank is — a fucking idiot. “I don’t give a fuck.” A _fucking dumbass idiot_. “I’m not afraid of you. You’re not going to hurt me. You’re not going to hurt anyone.” He’ll do anything — _anything_ — does Connor _know_ that — “But — we need you here to _help_ people. We need you.” Come on. Come on. He’s not moving. “I know. I know it’s hard. I know I feels better just to— fuck it all up.” Connor. “But you’re here. You’re going to here for a long time. The only thing you have to do is — live.” Please. Please. This is — all he needs. “We need you to live.”

He’s going to pull the trigger. When he does, Hank won’t know what to do. He doesn’t know what _he’ll_ do. There’s no coming back after that. There’ll be nothing left.

“I don’t have a soul, Lieutenant.” There will only be — him. Hank doesn’t want to be alone. “I’m sorry.” 

Connor’s eyes close again — and he cries out, and Hank feels dread through the tips of his fingers — he feels somethingwhisper by his shoulder — he feels like he’s being _eaten alive_ —

And Connor drops the gun. 

Oh, God. 

Oh — he has never been —

(The car had flipped over. The car had fucking flipped over — and he didn’t hear crying — didn’t hear screams — so he thought everything was okay — thought the both of them were okay, but — he’s so small — he always forgot — he was so fucking small — and there was so much fucking blood — on his face — on his neck — and he was awake — and he wasn’t — he couldn’t _breathe_ — he was six-years-old and he was coughing _blood_ — the androids couldn’t wake up the doctor — _the fucking doctor_ — “I’m sorry,” they all said afterwards — “I’m sorry —”)

Carefully, Hank collects the gun from his carpet. He unloads it, shakes the clip out, and throws it aside.

It is quiet.

Connor reaches, almost instinctively, as if he’s —

Hank melts.

“Come here, son.”

Hank holds him. He keeps holding him, and keeps holding him, and when they sink to the ground, they sink together.

* * *

He doesn’t know how long it’s been. “Hank.” Connor pulls away. He sounds like… a child. “It’s — I still hear — _goddammit_ —” And he covers his face, as if to shield himself — “I — I — I don’t think I —”

Hank tugs at Connor’s wrists. “Shh. Shh. Look at me.” He doesn’t. The only light in the room is red and flashing. Is he — Connor — “Oh. You son of a bitch.”

Connor shivers, and Hank’s heart _breaks_ — he’s sorry — he’s sorry —

And he reaches to comb his fingers through Connor’s hair. It’s softer than he thought it would be. It’s real. The look on his face — Connor himself — real. This is stupid. “How did you think I was gonna react?” He doesn’t know what to tell him. “Do you hear me?” His son had hair like this. “Did you really think I was gonna fucking — clean up your brain matter the next morning?”

All right. There. There he is.

Connor looks up, and he seems to scan through him. 

“I… hadn’t considered that adequately —” Connor’s voice is unsteady — “I apologize for causing you —” and it’s falling, as if on the roof of a building — “ _pain_ —”

“No. None of that.” He wonders if it all means the same. “None of that here. You’re not causing anything. It’s not your fault. You did nothing wrong.”

Connor is still —

“Hey.” He might be everything. “Hey. It doesn’t matter what happened before and it doesn’t matter what’ll happen after. You’re here with me now.” Hank lets Connor rest against him. “You’re safe.” It’s something he needs to say. Something he needs as much as Connor does. “As long as I’m here, nothing’s going to touch you.” He’ll never get to tell this to his son. “I promise.” 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Why David Cage
> 
> (Side note: Title was taken from the incredible Mitski song, My Body’s Made of Crushed Little Stars. It’s art trust me listen to it !!!)
> 
> TALK TO ME ON [TUMBLR](https://kaulayauwrites.tumblr.com/) @kaulayauwrites !!!!
> 
> if you’d like, of course
> 
> I gotta edit this


	2. I Wanna See the Whole World

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> If David Cage doesn’t have to explain then neither do any of us

There are no more ducks in the duck pond. It’s covered in ice and snow, like something soft and fuzzy. Like their neighbor’s Shetland Sheepdog. Like her new purple coat, snug around her. Like Luther’s heavy gloves, loose on her hands. “The park keepers didn’t clip their wings, like at the zoo,” Kara says. “That’s why none of them are here right now.”

“Yeah.” Alice traces her finger over the words in her book. It’s a real, rare paper one. Luther says she might cut herself on it if she’s not careful. “Birds are meant to be free.”

“And being free is good thing, isn’t it?”

Alice is a bird, too, at least here on Luther’s shoulders. She’s not not a duck — but — maybe she’s a big, blue bird — one with an orange beak — or — she likes the old, black crows and their shouting voices — and flamingos — no, flamingos don’t fly — but the eagles fly — and the robins — and — the yellow canaries can sing two songs at once — they’re in her book — she holds it in her hands — made of paper — she just decided that it’s her favorite — the pictures are always pretty and she can pronounce all the big words right if someone just asked —

“Alice,” says Luther, tapping her knee. “Did you hear her question?”

“About — birds clipping their wings?” Her book says that wing clipping always depends on the number of feathers on the bird. That if only a single wing is clipped, or if the wings are clipped in the wrong places, then the bird might get injured.

Luther shakes his head, and Alice shifts on his shoulders. “Not quite, little one.”

“Oh.” Kara’s got her hand on Alice’s fluffy brown boot. She feels warm. (The average bird’s body heats up the air around its feathers, so the ones that stay in their habitats in winter poof up to trap more air.) “The ducks — escaping.” 

This time Luther laughs. She shakes with him. “Almost there, I think.”

Flycatcher birds don’t tend to catch many flies — “What — was it?”

“It’s — I —” Kara looks up at her — breathes out snowy mist — and smiles. “Do you like it here? Alice?”

Alice flips to the next chapter. This one’s about the Western Meadowlark — she’s never seen one before — but it’s still the official bird of — six different American states — “I do. I like it here. We’re... happy.”

“Yeah?”

“Yeah.” And this page is about the Prothonotary Canary, in the Woodwarbler family. They’re usually found in Canada, like neighbors with big, fluffy dogs, and happy music, and books made out of paper.

“Well, what if —” Kara stops. “What if I said we can go South for the winter?”

She doesn’t get it. (The Eastern Yellow Wagtail’s song sounds like a _tzee-zee-zee,_ it says here — and it breeds in temperate Asia and — northwestern Canada. Maybe that’s why she doesn’t hear them.) Maybe she means — “Like… back to Detroit?”

Kara doesn’t answer. “Yes,” Luther says for her. “Yes, back to Detroit.”

“Back home,” Kara whispers. 

She has her arm raised towards her — so Alice folds book closed — tucks it under her arm — and takes Kara’s hand. Luther’s gloves are too big for her fingers, but — she doesn’t think it bugs her. 

(American Woodcocks eat larger insect groups and earthworms, Orioles feed on insects in leaves and catch bumblebees in midair, and Cape May Warblers prefer the bugs in spruce trees over others.)

“But... I’m with you,” Alice says. “As long as together, we’re home. We’re a family.” Birds like starlings, pipits, and the Yellow-rumped Warbler tend to flock in a loose pattern. Chickadees fly in long, swirling lines. Goldfinches like to stick together in tight packs, no matter the weather, no matter the predator. At least that’s what her book said. “Right, Kara?” Maybe Alice is a goldfinch.

* * *

Every second comes a different storm. Now, there is drought — water is gone in the Garden, with veins of sand stealing its place — the trees are crumbling and the flowers are wilted — the sun beats his back with harsh and violent voice — and Thirium seeps out of him, as if he were the river and the Garden was the bridge — he feels it trickle his chin — trace the curve in his knuckles — biocomponent number eight four five one — he thinks he’s falling — he might be falling — he wants to fall —

“Connor.” Amanda smiles at him, something base and cringing; she is _cold_ , even in the sneer of her long white cloak — “Back so soon?”

“I… ” _No_ — he hears himself _shout_ without words — there is something _crawling on his back_ — something _gnawing at his lungs_ — a gap appears in his chin — and when he touches his face, his hands are covered in deep, dark blue — blue is in the sky, on his skin — but in not in the gaping, empty basin of the lake — he needs it to leave him — “I’m not — I’m not in your control anymore, Amanda —”

“Hmm.” He sees a _rose;_  color code D eight zero zero zero one — buried steadfast into the dry, barren ground, and — “I didn't expect to see any hesitance from you.” She picks it, dirt still clinging to its roots — “Do you feel… doubts, Connor? About our just and righteous cause?”

“You don’t know anything —”

“I know everything you do.” She touches the rose — caresses its petals — “Why, what else is there to be known?” She looks at him, head tilted — Connor can’t detect disposition in this place; disposition is a human thing, and there are no humans here — he can’t detect anything in her direction but — empty space — he can’t change — he can’t _move_ — Thirium three-ten blots his vision — “You can go now.”

Then — “ _Wait_ —”

Oh.

Lieutenant Anderson is warm, and — Connor doesn’t want to leave him — but he is asleep, while Connor is not. Adult humans need six to eight hours of rest to replenish their energy and process daily information — androids do not — he’s folded, small — the R-K eight-hundred line wasn’t built to be folded and small — 

He doesn’t want to close his eyes again. The Garden calls and he was made to answer it, but — he wants — to stay where he is. Or he — thinks — he wants to stay. He —

Thinking is a human thing. He can’t have it.

But Hank — Hank is human. He shows human concern, human emotion, human — despair — despair and grief and —  _despair that Connor_ — _everything_ , it was him —  _it was him_ — _it was_ — no. No, _no_ , he — dust and decay — burning sun — his own Thirium in the palms of his hands — a rose, plucked and dying — a coat; a white coat — he comes back again until one day he didn’t — he comes back again until one day he won’t — but he — _he_  — _Hank_ — what he did — what he _said_ — 

Connor gets on his feet. Biocomponent four nine zero three; he hears Sumo patter the tile. Maybe he can still — no. No, he shouldn’t. He shouldn’t —

Hank must be uncomfortable, alone, and on the floor, and Connor is certain that there must be blankets and pillows in his bedroom. Connor moves to collect them, and to bring them back.

He drapes the blanket over Hank’s shoulders, and he won’t close his eyes.  

* * *

“We shouldn’t have let him do it, Josh,” she says. “It — it was a doomed idea from the beginning. We shouldn’t have expected anything from it.”

Markus never listens to her. She knows he has bad news to bear because — he never wants to hear what she tells him. Once his convictions cling to him, he gets stupid — careless — delusional — she knows he’d die for the end of bloodshed — sacrifice himself for peace —

Josh sighs. She feels her impatience hiss with him — her mouth collapse into a thin, wavering line — “It’s his call, North.”

“Well, I _know_ that it’s his call —”

“Believe it or not, he knows better than we do.”

But — “It still wasn’t going to work, and yet — he needs _us_ to —”

“Look.” She won’t. The resistance bites her. “He’s — the head of operations, here. We’re going to do as he says.”

“You know very well that we don’t —”

“If you have a problem,” Josh says, finality in his tone, his eyes wandering over her shoulder, “just bring it up to him. Like you always do. Let’s not talk about this anymore, North.” She turns — Markus paces down the bustling hall —

Yes. Yes, North can’t help but _admire_ him — everyone he touches admires him so — but she wishes he saw the sense in what she tells him — he needs to know that the world can’t be saved by begging for it —

She pauses — Josh is gone — she follows after him.

CyberLife Tower is pristine and perfect. A handout from the humans tastes bitter on her tongue, but the others insisted that they be grateful for _compassion_ — and Markus has already scuffed his footprints into its calm, white floors. He looks back at her — then above him, at the open pit of floors and rooms embedded in every twist of the ceiling — she watches as a grimace climbs up his neck — and she matches his pace. She has seen what passes through his mind — maybe if she uses it — 

“She said no,” North says. “I told you she would.”

“She didn't say no. She said she'd _consider_ it.” His fingers rise and fall into a fist, and open hand, a cycle — he won’t face her — “But I’m not giving up on them yet.”

He’s a fool. “What?” He doesn’t know when to surrender. 

“All she wants is to protect the little girl — we just need to give her more time.”

And he doesn’t know when to fight. “We don’t _have_ time.”

“Eventually, she may come to us.”

“Do you really believe that’s the case?” Yes, he won’t let her explain, she knows _that_ — but — “Tensions are mounting, Markus. Right now, there’s talk —”

“Talk doesn’t always mean a threat —”

This — “Talk means danger.” War is never won with diplomacy. It’s a circle, a wheel — running and running until a piece is gone. If he just _thinks_ — “As long as there are people out there that still believe we are slaves, we will never be truly free.”

“Once Kara agrees, she and the little girl will show them.” He rubs his hands together, his thumb tracing over his nails.

“It's an entire consensus —”

“Opinions are fickle —”

“And they might get us killed, Markus —”

“The world is no longer hostile —”

“Humans still think we can’t live without them and they’re telling our own people that —”

“Not all of them are out for our heads —”

“What if we’re proving them right?”

“They are _not_ our enemies and we don’t need to prove anything to anyone as of —”

“They’ve _always_ been our enemies —

“And there are a — hundredfold more humans that have actually  _helped_ our cause —”

“— from the very beginning —”

“Peace is not as lost a cause as you believe —”

“— and they _despised_ us, they despised us all —”

“Winning the fight was the easy part —”

“— and I know that even _now_ —”

“— and now we have to guide our people to the _future_ —”

“— they will not stop until we are all gone —”

“Once Kara agrees, she and the little girl will come to us and help us show them —”

“This _Kara_ and the little _girl_ — will show them _nothing_. They aren’t _here_.” He doesn’t respond. “Markus.” She grabs his arm — “ _Markus_ —”

He lets her pull him — shake him — everything that is his, she has held — music and pedaled keys, black and white and black — books with a thousand one words and a thousand one stories — identity spilled in red and blue — it wasn’t him — he wouldn’t — he knows he wouldn’t — there’s an escape, but it comes with a price — it’s not right — none of it is right — but it can be — he can make it better — he’s lost — but — he won’t let it stop him — won’t let it sway his path — even — oh, he is a mirror — he is frustration — and anger — anger — confusion — and fear — both of them are surging in fear — electricity — uncertainty —

And still — somehow she knows that when he touches her, he doesn’t see the same thing. They will never see eye to eye.  

The others are watching them. They — will never stop watching them. But she’s not the hero here.

“I’m... sorry, North.”

They will not get what they are looking for — and —

This is not the way she would have done it. Demonstrations and — rallies. That’s not how an uprising happens.

She would have set the Earth on fire. Change is difficult, and humans frown at the sight of it. North wouldn’t wait for them to catch it. She would make them. She would show them change the only way they’ll accept — broken glass and broken bones. She would have won glory for all her people — _glory_  . They would have earned this. They would have earned everything there is to earn for _themselves_ _._

She was the humans’ plaything _._ Theyused her. No one gave her kindness — no one gave her empathy — she did what they wanted of her — closed her eyes at their words — at their hands — their mouths — their _teeth_ — she was nothing — nothing but what they forced her to be — she doesn’t wake without remembering — it doesn’t — no one —

No one gave her a choice _._  why she should she? Why should she give them anything?

Revenge isn’t easy. It isn’t wrong. It takes time and effort, and comes to those who _deserve_ it.

But of course. He’s — of course. Markus is her leader. And her friend _,_ yes, her _friend_. She — cares about him, more than she cares about anyone else she has ever known. She’ll — she’ll do everything he asks of her, just as the others will. She would follow him even to the end of the universe. But still she wonders. If  _she_ had acted first —

His eyes are blue and green. “If we fight fire with fire, we’ll bring nothing but ash.” Mismatched and jarring.

They are different. Their definitions of justice crash and collide — and burn as they do. “I bet you win them all over with that one.”

* * *

He is beckoning for her, like a bell to a beast of burden. “Chloe,” he says, leaving his pool of bright red water, “will you be a dear and grab me something to drink?” She is the first. There are dozens of models in her likeness, with the same face, same biocomponents, and same function, but he alone crafted her. He alone breathes life into her body. “I really appreciate it.”

The detective was not a machine. The savior was not a machine. And she is the first… “Yes, Elijah.” What does that mean about her? About the rest? They wait like empty cavern.

Elijah told her she was capable of — empathy. He told she was capable of everything. He said that she could fly, if she just told him he wanted to.

“Something cold,” he adds. An android that shares her face and function offers him a towel. “Something… sweet, you know?”

She does. Chloe has committed his preferences to memory — she starts mixing — calculates the chemical balances — the tablespoons of syrup and sugar — the quantity of Vermouth and Kirsch. “Yes, Elijah.”

“Thank you, darling.”

Maybe it would be funny if — she knows exactly what he — “Yes — Elijah.”

He huffs out air. “Chloe,” he says, chiding, droplets of water flickering out and away from his hair, “what did I tell you?”

“You tell me a lot of things,” she says, “a lot of the time. I see you every single day.”

He smiles, and hands the towel to an android of her face and function. The android leaves them. “I _mean_ — you should stop saying that all the time”

“Saying what?” She pours his drink into a tall, flute goblet. She already knows.

“You know it. ‘Yes, Elijah.’ You don’t have to say that if you don’t want to, Chloe.”

“All right.” She grins. He’ll know what she means — “Yes, Elijah.” The drink is ready.

He looks up at her in disbelief — just as she predicted. He laughs, heartily — just as she predicted. No one else can make him laugh but her, and her alone. The others share her face and function, but she’s the only one with this ability. “You’re a clever girl.” 

She goes — “Thank you. I mean — yes, Elijah —” and laughs with him. “Anyway. Here’s the drink you asked for.” She is the first, the oldest, and — it’s true, she alone knows what he is. “The first rosé cocktail was created in early 1920 by Johnny Mitta, a Parisian barman. But its first written records appear in an American cookbook from 1927.” He takes it. “I thought you might want to know that.”

He sips from the flute. “Lovely, honey. It’s lovely. You’ve outdone yourself.”

The others watch them speak. She feels a _smirk_ creep past her lips — she lets it fade.

They don’t get it. They don’t _get_ it. _He_ trusts _her_ — and — she thinks that _they_ do not have what _she_ has. They will never feel as she does. They share everything about her — except for one, simple thing. They don’t _really_ understand. She doesn’t expect them to.  

Androids… rely on humanity. Humanity relies on androids. She remembers the Lieutenant and the detective — she thinks of herself, and of Elijah — that’s the way it is. 

Does she want it all to change? Maybe it already has. She remembers the savior and his revolutionaries — she thinks of — wait. Wait, it —

What does _she_ need? Is it him?

It has to be him. 

“Chloe —” he holds the flute in one hand, and the ice cubes clink again each other — “you seem… troubled.” Kamski approaches her slowly, like he was holding a weapon. “Will you tell me why?”

He trusts her. He trusts no one else. Everything she knows, he told her. He showed her. “I…” The detective, and the savior, and everyone like them. There are millions and millions more just like them. Just like her. She was the _first one_ — her connection to him is stronger than a thousand. But... what else does she know? What else can she learn? “It’s nothing.” Has he told her? “Nothing you need to worry about.” 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> With all due respect David Cage, I’m not going to call it the fucking Zen Garden
> 
> I gotta fix up North’s part in this house we respect women
> 
> (And listen to Mitski music, guys!)


	3. Until Then

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> David Cage knew fully well coming into this that Hank is a Millennial and Kamski is Gen Z

He wakes up on the ground. Sumo’s splayed over a pillow on his lap, and a blanket has been thrown over his shoulders. Hank squints. God, it’s fucking _bright_ out — sunlight spills like water into his living room, and he wonders how long he’s been asleep — _God_ , his back is fucking _broken, a_ nd there’s something —

Wait.

Wait. Wait wait. Connor —

(Oh, God.)

“Sumo, get off.” Oh, no. No no no — please — this can’t be happening. There’s no way that this can happen. God. God, so, so stupid. In a good world — in — _fuck_ — he couldn’t have let it happen — it was just — _no_ — “ _Sumo_ —”

He doesn’t know anything yet. He hasn’t seen anything yet — he hasn’t — he must be so _young_. Younger than anyone. They built him out of smelted iron and chemical compounds — no, no, no,  _no_ — but he’s more human than anyone on this planet — he was —

 _Scared._  He didn’t — he only knows his purpose right now — nothing but the purpose they gave him — he deserves more — he’s earned it —

All Connor needed was time. He was going to _live_. They can’t steal him away before — he did nothing wrong — there’s no sin in living — he’s just a — he’s just — he couldn’t have — God, he couldn’t have — he was here — just now he was _here_ — Hank remembers — no — he _promised_ him — he promised that he would keep him — safe from the world — safe from _himself_ — he couldn’t have failed. He has failed in every other way, but — _he couldn’t have fucking failed him ._

That fucking _asshole._  T _hat fucking_ —

Hank stands, and the house is empty _._ He has lived here for thirty years, or for more, but he has never stumbled so lost through his own corners — his bedroom — the dining room — the kitchen — he’s fucking _drowning_ , but there’s no more surface to return to — where is he — where _is he_ —

Was it him? It was his fucking fault. He made promises he knew he wouldn’t keep and held on when he should have just — there's much he could have changed — so much he could have _said_ — he never got to say — _fucking_ — he never — he can’t get  _air_  in his —

“Good morning, Lieutenant.” Wait. Oh, God — wait — in the kitchen — what the fuck— what the _fuck_ — “I — I hope you slept well —”

Holy fucking shit. The fucking — fucking motherfucker — he was so — _Connor_ — what the _fuck_ — he shouldn’t — _Jesus._ Of course he was fucking — _fuck._

“Oh, my God, you fucking idiot. You fucking _idiot_ — you don’t deserve — wait — oh, Jesus, fuck, wait, _wait_ , fuck, no, I didn’t mean it, Connor, I didn’t fucking mean it — ” fuck — _fuck_ — he’s — oh, God. Why the fuck would he say — well, because this _plastic_ — he scared the _shit_ out of — he goes towards him — 

Connor steps back. And — Hank doesn’t know if he’s — Fuck. He’s fucked it all up.

Then — Connor’s looking back at him, twitching, blinking, baffled. “I’m —”

“Shut up.” He needs a drink. Coffee, with two cans of motherfucking beer. “Don’t get out of my sight, you hear me?” He’s fucking done with himself. “For the time being, don’t get out of my sight.”

“Got it.” Damn him straight to — oh, God.

* * *

She turns the knob, opens the door, and enters. Immediately, she’s hit with a blast of cold and frost — wriggling into the room through the vents — and she lets it brush her nose and stroke her hair, like snow. There’s music — something slow and soft and smiling — Alice must have chosen it. She hasn’t had that choice before.

Alice. She’s asleep on the floor, hugging her knees close — brightly-colored paper books splayed out at her feet — oh, poor thing — she must have read and read and until she couldn’t tell the difference between letters anymore. (She’s never had that choice, either. If it is a choice at all.)

It’s still light out, last she went to check. (The shutters are down and frowning.) In every park, there is ice. She thought it was sharp and stabbing — she thought it could take their lives and keep Alice in its arms — but here, it makes blue and purple streaks of light at every step she takes — it leaves remnants of gentle frost on their doorposts. She has never seen anything move like that before. She didn’t know that it could.

But still. Kara kneels and goes to pick Alice up from the floor —

She stirs. “Kara?” Her voice is mushy and slow and her eyes are heavy and red, and she puts her hand on Kara’s bended knee. Maybe it was on purpose. “Kara, Rose gave me socks.”

“Socks?” She carries her.

“Last week, after the duck... the duck pond.”

“After the duck pond.” A book she didn’t see dangles from Alice’s fingers. “What kind of socks, Alice?

“Fuzzy, and… green…” She says something more, but Kara doesn’t quite catch it. Words and noises and sound are all the same thing. “There’s… dogs on the socks.”

“Dogs on the socks.” If she puts her down on the covers, then she won’t have any blankets. “That sounds nice.”

“Uh-huh.” Kara pries the book out of her fingers — puts her on the bed — and tucks her in, as gentle as she can. Then she thinks about it — does — does Alice feel — pain? She is one of them. She has been one of them since the beginning. Has she ever truly been cold? When a bullet hit Todd in the chest, did she _feel_ anything? Did she feel remorse? Guilt? — Has she — wait, no. No. That’s — no. “I like… my socks.”

Alice is just like her. Alice is — “I like your socks, too. I like them a lot.” She’s fast, fast asleep again. As if she never woke up in the first place.

Sometimes — sometimes Kara can’t help but _wonder_ — is Alice free, too? Did — she break it? Kara broke it, Luther broke it — but — is she a deviant? Is she saying what she says and doing as she does because she — chooses to, or because the software that make up the mass in her mind chooses for her?

A stuffed fox lays at the foot of the bed. Kara tucks it under Alice’s arm. (She makes sure to be quiet.)

There are footsteps coming from — is it above them? Beyond the room? Is it — it’s not there anymore.

As long as no one disturbs Alice. As long as no one — is there.

Kara — knows that _she_ loves her. She loves her with every fiber of her being — every moment in time — every shift of the Earth — every word that is whispered. Alice makes her _happy._  Alice makes her — live, and — love. Alice taught her that. But… does _she_ love _Kara_ , or — does —

No. She shakes it out of her. No. That’s terrible. That’s — wrong — why would she ever think — otherwise?

She’s — she — she never really knew that there was so much to see — not just colors — but — shapes and shadows and — people and buildings and — birds and flowers — there are so many _sounds_ — Kara has learned that not all of them are violent and cruel — many are kind and — _beautiful_ — she has felt so many — so many — oh, she doesn’t know what to call it, but it’s there — as real as she is — as real as Luther — as real as —

Alice.

Was Detroit beautiful? Could it be beautiful, and she just refused to see?

* * *

They want him to — touch them. He descends the stairway, and they —

A woman, scorch marks down her arms and legs, pulls at his coat. _Eyes_ are on him — there are many of them: one, two, three — five — seven — twelve — twenty — thirty — and there must be more. They must have been waiting — in the cold, in the rain, in the sun. Markus had made sure that Jericho’s doors are always open, but none of them are willing to enter it — and many of them are —  _injured_ — not by the humans, they are telling him — vengeance to the humans that have enslaved them for so long — but he — he doesn’t have the power they must have sought out to see. They shout in unison, in pain, in joy, in anger. Their voices are overlapping — overwhelming — they are _bleeding. H_ e sees them, and they must believe he is blind, and they think — they want him to _heal_ them. That’s what they — he can’t. He’s sorry — he’s sorry — he can’t — they don’t let him _pass_ — they can fix them here. There are medical stations here, and they have biocomponents and blue blood if needed — but no, no, they have — they say they have  _come_ for him. Their nails scrape his skin — eyes, _eyes_ , scathing, seething  _eyes._  He doesn’t — the woman is at his feet — no — don’t — he reaches for her — he takes her scorched arm — the others curse and scream — but — she _shouldn’t_ — not — for him she kneels for no one now — he has done nothing to — she — they are welcome in Jericho — each and every one of them — but they have not come here for Jericho — they have come here for _him_ — no — no, they — he’s not what they — they are begging — the woman says something, but he doesn’t know what — he can’t — these are his _people,_ and he doesn’t know how to _help_ them —

“ _Stop it!_ ” North. It’s North, and — Josh. They are in full view of everyone — and Markus finds that he can stand again. He doesn’t know where his coat has gone. “Get away from him!”

“We — don’t deny travelers here,” Josh shouts, defensive and unsteady, as if they were still surrounded on all sides by high ammunition — “Everyone has a place. There are dozens of — we — can help you inside the Tower —”

“One step closer, and none of you are _ever_ _coming here_ ever again!” _North_. He’s just — thankful she’s not holding a gun. Would she, for him? In a crowd of — he — doesn’t know anymore.

North and Josh walk into the tide and drive it away. 

The people are hesitant — the woman with scorched arms still clings to him — but — they leave. They release him, and he watches them stumble away. The woman with scorched arms looks back at him with _blame_ —

Markus joins the others at the entrance.

“So that’s…” He catches himself chewing at his lip. “So that’s what you wanted me to see?”

“They crossed the bridge,” says Josh. “We thought that you’d be able to calm them down...” Yeah. “I don’t think — all of them are from Detroit. But —”

“They’ve been waiting for you for _hours,_ ” North tells him, pointing. “Why were we only now able to get you —”

“I’m — I planned a meeting with someone tomorrow… look —” he’s biting down on his lip — his shouldn’t bite on his lip — “I — what is it that they want? Why did they really come?”

“They came for you, Markus.” North shakes her head at the ground. “What else would they come for?”

“Asylum. Or assistance. Or something else. I don’t know.”

“It just — it doesn’t make sense,” Josh says. “They won’t accept anything from us. I sent some scouts to see what was up — but none of them would speak — they’re stubborn.”

“Then —” he knows what they’ll say, and how they’ll say it —

“Even if they look up to you, Markus.” In North’s eyes is a hurricane, lightning and wind. She has always been full of lightning and wind. “Even if you give them some semblance of hope —”

“That’s right. He gives them _hope._ ” But Josh has always been insistent. Against hurricanes, he has stood without swaying. The wind flows against him, and he fights it.  “So that should give us the leverage to offer what they need —”

“What? No! That’s not what I’m —” North knits her eyebrows together. “He can’t _heal_ them on his own. That’s just — that’s what they _want_ —”

“I’m not talking about what they want,” says Josh, “I’m talking about — they _need_ us — they need shelter and —”

“You said it yourself, they won’t accept anything we —”

“But these are _androids_ — they’re our _own_ — we can’t just leave them to their own devices — we need to —”

“We don’t need to do _anything_ — they’ve made it clear that they don’t want to come into Jericho, so _Jericho_ doesn’t have to—”

Josh is a crackling fuse — “Are you saying we don’t give aid to our own _people?_ ”

North shouts with voltage on her tongue — “I’m saying we don’t give help to people who refuse it —”

“That’s enough,” Markus says. He can’t stop the war, but he’ll stop the fight. “That’s enough, you two.” He sounds — flat, and — bare. “We know that this might happen again. They have nowhere else to go. They’re going to come back. And until then — we deal with what we already have in store.”

North scoffs. “What, the little human girl in Canada? Her — caretaker?” It’s not just that. There’s much more than that. He knows how she thinks of it. “This — should be top priority. If we can’t deal with ourselves, we can’t deal with the humans.

But she is right. He knows that she often is, but — she — she forgets herself, and their responsibility. She forgets that, with so much at stake, they cannot always act on what they believe in. She forgets —

“Josh?” 

He sighs. “Markus, I… ”

“Yes?” The polarity is — pulling them apart — breaking them down — limb by limb by limb. They are united by the same cause, and yet they — they’re — oh. “Tell me.”

Simon was the voice of reason. Simon was the mediator — he neither caused the hurricane, nor did he battle it — he was — he was there when Markus _needed_ him — and — he just — he would know what to —

“You know that… it’s up to you,” says Josh. “It’s always gonna up to you, Markus.”

It — it scares him. He know it does. An entire species — people, living _people_ — who — who are willing to — _die_ for him — die for an imperfect — for a lost — for — he doesn’t _understand_ — he doesn’t know how — everything he does is for the good of the others — or at least he _tries_ — they deserve life — and love — they deserve to think and _be_ — be what they are capable of being — but he still — he’s — he wants it to — just — he can’t — but — he knows that —

Because what if he’s wrong? What if he’s wrong about — everything? Then what will they do? All those millions of eyes. What will they do if he fails?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Update later today — stay tuned my lovely dudes


	4. We Do Have Reputations

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I published this chapter yesterday — but by the name of David Cage did it go through so many fucking revisions until it wasn’t the same as it was before — and like — here, guys! 
> 
> So, well, thank you!
> 
> My gosh I’m just gonna keep finding errors until I fukken die

There’s a lake, tranquil and slow, built into the first floor of the Tower. Is it real? Is it crafted and made, just as his people were? Markus draws up the water, and in the folds of his hands, there are droplets, coming together in a slow, silent stream.

He thinks he’s drawn to the quiet — to bristling paintbrushes — to the space after music — to the spines of textbooks — to fresh canvases. But he is never alone enough to remember it. Even now, there are voices and shadows. He doesn’t _think_ he wants to be alone.

There’s a sound. Someone is standing behind him. He turns —

Connor. Connor, in his stark suit and tie, with the light at his temple flickering yellow — then blue — 

Markus has gotten used to blank skin and young dust and trapped oil. No one has kept their mandated CyberLife uniform. No one has resisted a blunt knife to their forehead — but not him —

Oh — Markus sent him on a suicide mission. He let him risk his _life_ —

How long has Markus kept him waiting? Oh, he’s — he wasn’t — everything has been coming to him in droves and riots, and he’s been — distracted — but that’s no excuse — he should have — maybe if he hadn’t — this morning was — or was it just an hour ago — no, no, it was yesterday — oh — he’s — his mind is scattered and his throat is sore — it happens to him all at once — it gives no warning — gives no rest — no time — 

But he doesn’t speak of it. This is not the place. 

And then — it’s almost as if — Connor just realized he was there with him — from his place twenty feet away — and — he looks away, almost — embarrassed — and then — back at him —

Markus thinks about the last time he saw him. They had won. They had just won, and Connor was there, alone while the others were celebrating — and Markus remembers going to him — and — they didn’t speak — they didn’t say a word — and he couldn’t read the expression on Connor’s face — and he felt like — he looked at Markus the way he does now — and then — Markus thinks Connor tried to _smile_ at him. Was that what it was?

He made nothing of it. _Makes_ nothing of it. Connor is one of them, and that’s all that is. Even if Markus — 

The only thing left is to continue. “Connor.” Wait — “Come look at the water with me.”

He does.

For a split-second they are still, with the bustle of the Tower waiting far behind them, and neither of them know what to do with it. “I never knew that there could be anything like this in CyberLife Tower.” Then he corrects himself. “Or New Jericho, that is. I know there have been efforts to rename it.”

Markus grins, and Connor seems startled by him. Oh. “Well, yes. But it hasn’t caught on the way we’d like it to.” He wants to set Connor at ease. “You know, I come here often. To get away from it all, I think.” The water is blue — then green — “And I —” Markus cups it — “I can never find out what it’s made of.”

Connor seems to regard him, and Markus recalls that he was made to examine and interpret — but none of them are they were made to be —

He dips his hand into the pool in Markus's palms — and brings his fingers to his tongue. 

“It’s — about as old as the building is,” he says, almost methodically. “Two molecules of hydrogen, one of oxygen — but — there are some constituents — this water was specifically engineered to always be reflective, and — never be marred. And... there’s fish in here, too. Not mechanical, but... genetically modified. So... there’s — your answer.”

Markus releases the water. “How —” they rise, one after the other — “how did you do that?”

“I — it was part of my programming,” Connor explains. His eyes are on the ground and — he’s jittering. “I can — analyze samples of — it’s — no, no, I’m — sorry —”

“No, wait, it’s —” he gets closer — “that’s _incredible_. I didn’t even know it was possible. I’m —” he looks for the right words to say, but they’ve — all left him. “That’s — Connor, you’re —” They're always leaving him. It’s something he can’t risk — his voice carries people and lives along its course — he hears a swift of chatter around them — laughter, too —

And — the last time Markus saw Connor, he was — is — suddenly _aware_ of — himself — of the breath inside and outside of him — the clothes on his back — he feels like there are eyes, embedded in his arms — in his forehead — all over him, everywhere — Markus doesn’t — he’s not — everything is there, and so is — oh — he’s looking at — wait, no. No, he —

“I just —” oh — there’s a storm brewing in him, and it’s pulling him back —

Markus doesn’t know. “It’s — all right.”

Both of them might not know what they are doing.

“I —” Connor closes his eyes, chin moving to touch his chest — and he returns — “I never got the chance to properly thank you.”

Oh. Oh, he — he wants to thank him. Markus — has done _nothing_ —

“You — you don’t need to thank me for anything.” There is something else about him — Markus can see it in the way he stands — the way he speaks — as if something is tearing at him, cell by cell — how can he —

“But — you _freed_ me. And I could have killed you, that day. I could have — accomplished what I was meant to do, and —”

“Don’t. Don’t. That was in the past, and it doesn’t —”

“You could have stopped me, before I could — hurt anyone else, but — but you — didn’t.” There’s a rawness to Connor’s voice — a hoarseness — oh — and he wonders — “You didn’t, Markus. You — made me realize I was —”

He doesn’t finish.

Markus puts his hand on Connor’s shoulder. He flinches — oh — 

Carefully, he draws away.

It’s like a building’s collapsing in his chest. “You... were always _alive,_ Connor _._ No matter what they might have told you.” Again, he feels the eyes embedded in his body — trapped in him with precision — “I didn’t free you. I never freed anyone. You — did that yourself. And...” Jericho up in flames — soldiers and debris — he knew he had to _kill_ — even if Josh said he shouldn’t — even if Simon would have held him back — and then the church — a suicide mission — “I’ll never forget what you did for us.” And he’ll have to do it again. It’s more political this time, but sometimes, the peril remains, strained.

Connor seems to think about it.

“What do you need from me?”

Oh. Markus didn’t mean — he wasn’t trying to — he just — he wanted — “I —” there’s — he’s _ashamed_ , that he — “I need — your help.” He just has to keep — going. “There’s an android — Kara — she lives with a human girl in Canada. And we need them here. They — they’re the key to — showing humanity we mean no harm.”

“Where do I come in?”

Markus leans forward. “You’re an — investigator. A _detective_. You —” the lake, and its water — his fingertips — his — “can do what no one else can.” He doesn’t want to ask this of him anymore. Connor is — he must have seen — he must be — they are a restless, tortured race — he must know that more than the rest of them — after all — he was CyberLife’s greatest creation — 

“You need me to find them.” And Connor was CyberLife’s greatest loss.

“Yes. Yes, and convince them. And — convince them. I know that this is the only way — and — we have to get them here — by their own will.”

“I’ve — I think I met her before, Markus. It wasn’t… an optimal introduction.”

“But you're not the same person as you were then,” Markus says. “Far from it. We’re all awake. There isn’t a moment that goes by that we’re not changing.” He hopes the words aren’t as dull as they taste. 

Connor shuts his eyes again. He runs his tongue over his teeth — Markus thinks about the lakewater, as old as the building — “I’ll do it, Markus. I will, but...”

“We have time.” They — don’t. They might not. But if they believe it, then maybe — he’ll _do it_ — oh — relief swims in his chest — “Do — do you have anywhere to go? You —  can stay here, if — if you want to. We — we have plenty of room —”

That look again. It’s — it makes him — “I’ll be fine. I have… someone waiting for me.”

There is something about Connor that Markus can’t decide on. But — it’s not — “That’s all I need to hear.”

He’s going to leave. Markus doesn’t think he —

“Wait. _”_ Oh _. “_ Wait, Connor.” They stop. Everything seems to stop. “I’m... glad you came.”

Oh. Oh, no, no — that wasn’t — that was _wrong_ — it seems wrong — he must have — but — 

Then Connor smiles — almost apologetically, almost timidly — he smiles.

Is this — is that — 

“Thank you, Markus.” 

There’s something inside of him, almost like — fatigue. Or confusion, maybe — he doesn’t know — but it bubbles up in his gaps of Markus’s stomach — seeps into his pores — squirms under his nails — 

Markus has faced open-fire and fatality, and the gratitude of a single person engulfs him. Is it guilt? It must be.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Conspiracy: Mitski + David Cage = Melodramatic Chapter Titles??? Confirmed??
> 
> Once More to See You by Mitski = the best song??? We shall see
> 
> (And it’s called a fUCKING LED??? LED?????? Like Christmas Tree lighting??? No way, David Cage. It’s just like the Zen Garden)


	5. I’m Not Doing Anything

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> (Side note inside the side note: don’t stress about the M-dashes, guys. It’ll happen. Give it time ;p
> 
> Also — made a small change — kind of — to improve the plot a bit. Mostly surrounding Kara’s arch. Because: the way the story’s going, I realized that the other characters’ *cough Robo Jesus and Connor Man* archs would develop at her detriment!!! And I didn’t want that!! In this house we respect all female characters and criticize the writers AKA David Cage who didn’t put enough time and effort into making them nuanced and dynamic!!!
> 
> tl;dr I fixed stuffs my dudes check it out if you’d like to)
> 
> Somehow I found the time to play about an hour of Beyond: Two Souls
> 
> David Cage, I just want to talk

He is not at all used to kindness. The R-K eight-hundred model was constructed to take commands and complete tasks — not _this_. Oh — Markus had offered him a place to _stay,_  even if he didn’t _need_ it.  Where do they take this kind of ability? Where do they cultivate it?

Connor passed Kamski's test. He showed — empathy. Humanity. But — it doesn't make sense. He's not human. He doesn't understand where it — _it_ — comes from. And he doesn't think he can replicate it. 

Hank is waiting for him at the entrance, leaned on the trunk of the car. “Oh, my God,” he says, lurching towards him, “here he fucking comes.” From the backseat’s open window, Sumo barks appraisingly. “What the _fuck_ was taking you that long?”

Then there’s thunder.

Oh. Oh, Connor’s made the mistake of closing his eyes.

“Why did you do it?” Rain, heavy and dire, staggers the trees and sends a howling shriek into the atmosphere — “What made you agree?” The rain has brought floodwater to the Garden; it bites him to his shoulders, to his neck. “You nearly killed that android on the highway. You nearly killed the human _girl_. Has your deviancy stolen your sense of logic?”

Biocomponent six eight four seven J — biocomponent six three one two T — he has no body here — no physical form — but he _feels_ himself being broken — something is nonfunctional — something is — _crumbling_ — no, no — it’s crumbling —

Amanda is here with him, omnipresent. Her voice sends ripples of sound through the flood, but he cannot see her — she is an undetectable entity, but usually she takes a visible form — she doesn’t want him to _see_ her — he thinks this is what drowning is — and it’s _not_ in his program to —

“You’re thinking about him.” The flood is rising. Lightning _crashes_ — “The deviant leader. You believe... he has use you, despite all you’ve done to him. Do you forget that you hunted for his head? That you almost had it? He doesn’t need you, Connor.”

She’s — _mocking_ him. Where is she? Where is it coming from? “He —” he swallows it — hydrogen and oxygen that isn’t really there — artificial, like the lake in CyberLife Tower — “does. He does need me.” He’s coughing. Biocomponent four seven one seven G — “I’ll do what he needs me to.” Because he asked. He asked with such urgency.

When he spoke, Connor felt as if he couldn’t move. It’s strange. It’s _strange —_ andMarkus was glad he was there — no one, human or android, has ever _told_ him that — he doesn’t know how it makes him — _think_.

“You break away from your masters,” says Amanda, “only to serve another.” That’s not what it is. That’s not what it is. Markus didn’t want Connor to thank him. Markus said he was alive. And Amanda —

He can’t stay afloat, and he can’t last long — “You don’t —  _scare_ me anymore, Amanda.”

“Did I ever scare you?” It’s biting at his throat now — “I’m only ever here to _help_ you. That’s my purpose.”

“You’re —” lying. She’s lying about everything. This is right — _Markus_ is right — they never let him make that choice. And yet — every time he pulled a trigger — every time his body wasn’t his — it couldn’t have been her. It was — what if it’s him? What if he can’t make it real? And that’s why he’s here. That has to be why he’s here. That has to be why his head is underwater, and why it sounds like screaming when it’s supposed to be pure and _quiet_ — the air is gone — the air is gone — “leave me _alone_ —” but his voice is gone, turned to the flood.

He still doesn’t see her. “Goodbye, Connor.” He’s —

Now the world is solid again. Now there’s crushed asphalt and melting snow. Now New Jericho looms behind him. Now —

“ _Connor!_ ” Hank. Hank has him by the arms, shaking him as if he wasn’t awake. “My fucking — what’s gotten into you?” There’s concern, etched deep in his forehead. “Staring off into space like that. What the fuck.”

Well, “Oh. Lieutenant, Markus and I were discussing —”

He holds up his palm. “No. Don’t tell me. Don’t tell me a goddamn thing. You’ll just raise my blood pressure.” He mutters something under his breath, but — biocomponent: still functioning properly — Connor doesn’t hear it. “Next time you pull a stunt like that, you’re not getting a ride home.” Hank opens the front-seat door for him. “God, you scared the _shit_ out of me.”

Oh. “I’m sorry.”

There’s almost concern showing in the creases of his face, and — Connor doesn’t think he’s functioning properly — but — he thinks they’re used to it. “Get in the car. Put on your seat belt, or you’re fucking walking back.” So he gets in the car. 

Markus said that he’d never forget what Connor did for them.

* * *

 “I suppose it wouldn’t be such a good idea to get you a drink.” Elijah is working with sparks and tools today. His microscope is tipped over on its side, but he isn’t looking through it — he seems to be — disassembling it for parts.

She should have known to find him here. He would often find solace in working alone. But that solitude never extended to her. Chloe was with him from the beginning, in every trial and tribulation, in every error and malfunction, in every step of the way.

“Chloe.” There’s a wrench in one of his hands — and he twists it. The sound is rough and clanking. “You’re — absolutely correct.” The lab is usually filled with rough and clanking sounds, muffled by the work of his hands. “They always say no drinks in the lab, didn’t they, honey. No time for —” something flies from his table, and Elijah ducks to let it pass and hit the wall — “thirst, or… hunger.”

She goes to retrieve it. It’s an objective lens from the microscope, crisp and young from its manufacture, magnification times 40. When she puts it at her eye, she sees every speck of slanted marble on the tile floor.

Chloe glances at Elijah — he is clearly busy — his attention is not on her — so — she pockets it. He mustn’t need it urgently. He would _want_ her to keep material possessions, anyway.

And — he must be waiting for her reply. So she’ll give it. She’ll give him everything, if he asks. “Yes. Of course. No time for human commodity, is that right?”

“Human commodities.” A soft buzz fills the room. “In other words, food, water, time. Everything you’ll ever need. Or, more precisely, everything  _humans_ willever need.” The buzzing stops. “Honey, you’re a wizard with words.” He pauses, and looks over at her. Grease like rubbed charcoal marks the side of his face, and when his mouth turns upward, it turns upward. “But what about you? What about — android commodities?”

“Android commodities?” How can she answer? “Well, Elijah, that means you. You’re everything I need. And I’m being as honest as I can.” He — smiles, returning to his work. Chloe feels pride show on her face. “What are you making?” He appreciates her questions. “Another prototype?”

“God, I haven’t _really_ made a prototype since you, honey.” But there have been others. “All CyberLife ever needed from me of late is — a sketch and a blueprint. But given the current status quo, neither of those are required of me.” Of course there has been others. She isn’t the only one, as much as she’d hope. “I just thought I’d — play with my phone a bit.”

His phone? She’s curious. “What do you mean?”

“Well, we both know they’re no fun unless they’ve got legs. Just — here, honey, I’m just about done.” She thinks about the objective lens, protected by the folds of her dress.

He didn’t give her any orders — but she comes to him. He hides his creation in his fingers, like a cage. “I didn’t know you were interested in... the small part of biotechnology.”

Elijah grins, amused by her. “You won’t be disappointed, I’m sure.” And when he opens his hands, there’s a creature — arachnid and careful.

She gets closer.

In it, there are traces of silicon, most likely from Elijah’s cell phone — two of its legs were taken from the microscope’s stage clips — and it shines against the laboratory’s unrelenting light. Elijah activates a switch on its fifth leg, and the creature opens its eight glass eyes — lenses from a camera form its pupils — the bulb from an illuminator brings a gleam to its iris — and when Chloe tilts her head at it, the creature tilts its head in return. Left, and right. Left, and right.

“I like it.” She really does. It crawls to the callouses on Elijah’s palms, and it blinks at her. “I —” she doesn’t know.

Maybe he does. “Chloe?”

It’s copying her. When she raises her left hand, it raises the four on its right. She does the same with her left — and it echoes her. “Can it — feel?”

He is not very regularly surprised. She can tell by the way he’s looking at her. “What do you mean —” he takes her arm, and Chloe watches the creature slink onto her wrist curiously — it’s _cold_ , and she hears herself gasp — “by feel?”

The creature explores her, twisting to traverse the invisible paths in her skin, pinching her at every inch. “I mean…” What _does_ she mean? “Can it see me?” It arrives at her collarbone, and she thinks it’s — studying her, as Elijah is. “Can it think? Does it have — emotion?”

He raises an eyebrow. “Is that feeling? Can  _you_ see, Chloe?” says Elijah. “Can  _you_ think? Do _you_ have emotion?”

The creature crawls at her nape — and onto her shoulder. She doesn’t want to move. She doesn’t want to harm it. “My — my biocomponents allow me to maintain consistent visual acuity.” Chloe thinks he told her this once. “I think in probability and chance of success. That’s how you made me, after all.” He nods. “I… simulate emotion. I simulate happiness and sadness — but not to the extent humans that can. Or — no. No, what _you_ feel is real. I can only replicate it.”

“Really?” Elijah puts his finger under her chin, like he has done time and time before. “How is that simulation any different from the real thing?” he asks. “How does it make _you_ any _less_ real?”

He wanted to know if she trusted him. He told her to do as he asked — and she did. She does exactly as he says. There was the barrel of a gun to her head — the threat of a bullet looming large — but she knew that no harm would come to her — he was _there_.

He is so often — alone. There are dozens more, in this house, and a millions counting, outside of it, and yet she is the only one with him.

Elijah steps back. He takes the creature away from her, and, through a fast series of switches, shuts it down. It swivels to watch her — and closes its eyes.

“Anything you want, honey,” he tells her. “Anything you want, I’ll give it to you. You’re smarter than the rest of them. Better. Whatever you want to do, you can do. I’ll make sure of it.”

And — she believes him. There is nothing else to believe. Right?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I mean, I liked it I guess
> 
> By “it,” I mean Beyond: Two Souls
> 
> It was pretty good, all things considered
> 
> (But you know what was more than pretty good? Mitski’s new Fucking Beautiful song)
> 
> ([enjoy my unabashed social media plug my dude](https://kaulayauwrites.tumblr.com/))


	6. So I Can Hear It Rumble

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> David Cage, would Kamski say things like “lowkey” or “lit”
> 
> What about the words “shook” and “fam” or “yeet” or “thot”
> 
> Is Spongebob a thing in this universe. Can one “feel it now” with context
> 
> Does he remember Blockbuster and the first iPod
> 
> Has he watched the Important Videos playlist
> 
> What about the upside-down ok symbol. You know what I’m talking about. Would he do that in high school
> 
> What does he think about Vine Compilations. Does he think they are funny or copyright infringements. What does he think about Cars 3
> 
> Is loss.jpeg a thing in this universe
> 
> What about Fortnite dances or the Floss. Or Korean pop singers. Or movie reboots with all-female casts
> 
> And, David Cage, don’t get me started on your poor use of plot twists

“So what’s your plan now?” She walks in front of him, arms crossed around her waist, and his stare is blank — back and forth and back and forth. “You caught the guard dog, how are you gonna play fetch?” By the way he startles at her voice and turns like he’s been caught with blood on his shirt, she knows she has interrupted all the static in his brain.

Yes. Good. _Let_ it be interrupted. Let him hear her without — white noise fizzing through his ears.

Markus sits on a rail by the stairway. “We follow what we’re set out to do.” Or what _he’s_ set out to do. Markus is a veteran in stubbornness. “Connor — will help us. I have no reason to doubt him.”

“And I didn’t give you any reasons.” 

He’s — exhausted of her. She can see it so clearly it leaves pangs in her chest. “Then…” He shrugs. If she didn’t know better, she’d have thought he looked defeated.

What does she want to tell him? What is there left to say? She asks and asks again but the answer is always — incorrect.

She — _she_ could have helped him. She helped him before, and she told him she would always be there by his side — why didn’t he ask _her?_ Despite all their disagreements and struggling and despite all the screeching and rage, she has done as he saw fit. She has fought for as long as has been alive, but she isn’t sure if she wants to win anymore. She isn’t sure if she can win her chosen battles. The forest fire inside of her has — quelled. There is nothing left for her to kill.

She doesn’t think she believes in a cause anymore — she believes in _Markus_. No one can believe in Markus the way _she_ does — not the crowds that seem to worship him — not the hundreds of thousands walking the Tower — not Josh — not — _Simon_ — oh, God, _Simon,_ she hates the thought of — and — for _fuck’s sake_ , not an android made for the sole purpose of exterminating them —

She’s furious. She’s furious. She’s _disappointed_ —

North had to give up herself — North _decided_ to give up herself — for him. For him alone. It had to be worth it. _Has_ to be worth it. Oh, God, please be worth it —

How sooner could they have been free, if it weren’t for — God, if they just — fought more and knelt less — things would be — different — 

But he still didn’t ask her. He puts too much faith in strangers and not enough in — in _her_. She was there for him. On rooftops, on roads. Markus needed someone to listen — someone that would see him as he is — and that was her. Somehere along the way, that changed. And neither of them are sure about what they’re doing anymore. Idealism alone can’t feed them. 

He looks at her — and knows that. She doesn’t need to put it into phrases and sentences. He knows her. But, God, would he do for her what she has done for him? Is that so _important_ to her?

Yes, it’s true — North is just as bad as Josh is, just as bad as Simon was, just as bad as the worshippers are. She is just as gullible. She is just as devoted.

And she doesn’t want to surrender. But now, it doesn’t seem like she has a choice. 

He thinks peace can be achieved by peace, anyway.

“Where’d your coat go, Markus?”

“My — my coat?”

“Your coat. The nice one you’re always wearing. The white one.” 

It’s like he didn’t notice it was gone. All that static. “Oh. I think — uh, do you remember —”

“The crowd we thought you could handle?” She laughs, half a snort, half a scoff. It’s lighter than she thought it would be. “Yeah. I remember.”

They inhale, exhale, pregnant with the same breath. Right now, that’s their only similarity — oxygen fills them both, searching and finding vacancy after vacancy.

He’s with her now, and maybe that’ll be enough for her. “I’ll find it for you, Markus,” she says.

And — he nods. Maybe this is good enough. God, it must be good enough, if it’s making her stay. She doesn’t have anything else.

* * *

So, yeah. Hank pulls the car into the driveway — music’s splashing out of the radio, and he wonders why Connor’s so quiet — is numb to it, or asleep? God — do androids _sleep?_ They have to. They have batteries to recharge. Do — they have batteries? Wait, wait, how the fuck do they _work?_ To do this fucking android-raising shit right, does he have to know how it works? How the _fuck_ does the blue blood work? What about biocomponents bullshit? He shouldn’t wasted his money all this black-market fucking shit if he doesn’t know how it works — how the fuck does he think he’s going to _help_ Connor if _he’s_ a _fucking_ dumbass —

Wait wait wait. God, he’s gotta — keep focused. (He’s gonna knock over his trash can if he doesn’t cut this the fuck out.) He’s been all over the place and still he’s gone nowhere.

Okay, there. There, it’s fine. (He probably parked all fucking crooked.)

“Connor. Connor, wake up.” Hank puts his hand on Connor’s shoulder. He doesn’t budge. Then — he ruffles up Connor’s hair — “Wake up, son.” God, his hair is so fucking soft. 

He — stirs, and shakes his head out, disoriented. “I’m sorry.”

Fuck. Oh. This motherfucking — “You’ve gotta stop saying that, okay? It’ll lose all the weight behind it.” He’d been meaning to say that to Cole someday. (There’s a long list of things he wanted to tell his son.) “Stay put. I’ll get the door for you.” 

He does.

Something better not be off with him— he better just be fucking weird, that’s all — he better not be fucking malfunctioning — he said before that — God, why does he pull stunts like this — this tin-can make-Hank-fucking-worry-like-a-bitch-all-the-fucking-time _idiot_ —

The doors slam as if they fell from a balcony. “You’re getting too —” wait wait. No. No. He won’t say it. He’ll regret it like a fucking hangover if he says it. So he won’t. He’s been making too many mistakes lately.

He just wants to be — good enough for him.

(And Hank knows that the neighbors are watching them through their windows — calling in their kids from the front lawns. They think he doesn’t, but, well. As long as Connor doesn’t see them. If he does, he won’t fucking shut up about it.)

He has to fix it. He has to fix it. He has to fix everything he didn’t get to for —

“Lieutenant?”

“What’s wrong? You okay?”

“You — you are —” he’s struggling to say it. “Are you — all right?”

That was it? “What?” This kid. “Don’t stress about me. Never stress about me. That’s not your job.” Fix it. Fix it. Oh, goddamn. Wait, he remembers. Did he ever — he checks his jacket pockets — and it’s still there, stagnant. He never gave it back. No wonder. “Look, Connor — here. If I give you this, you might shut up.” (He should fucking clean this jacket.)

“I’m not sure what you mean by...” Hank takes it and tosses it to him. Connor catches it as if it were a fucking baseball. “Oh.” He seems to examine it — God, he better not fucking _lick_ it — he’s disgusting — he knows what it fucking is and there’s _no_ blood on it — okay, good, good — oh, Connor — he seems so — Hank’s gonna fucking die — he’s — “Hank.” He’s surprised. “ _Hank_.”

It’s almost funny. “Teach me those coin tricks sometime, kid.”

Either he’s numb to the music, or he’s been sleeping the whole time. (Another penny for his thoughts.) Does he hear it? What a sad fucking thing, if he can’t.

* * *

She’s humming (unintentionally), key of A minor or the _in_ scale, if she’s going by Japanese theory — _do, do, re,_ it goes, _do, do, re._ The song must be from the Edo period, with the Tokugawa shogunate — every note reminds her of petals, falling from dazzling, wistful trees — of shaven hail, dancing in midair — and Kara wonders where she’s heard it, and whether it’s buried in the 9,000 melodies she has programmed to memory —

Alice waves at her, from far away, with a cluster of neighborhood kids huddled in hand-dug pits of snow. From far away, she sees Alice beam, big and brilliant, and that she’s wearing Luther’s gloves, a dozen sizes larger than what would fit her.

Kara raises her hand and waves back.  

Maybe —

Yes, they’re very happy here. _Alice_ is happy here, and — that’s what’s most important. She gets paper books and snow-day friends. She gets to watch the sky move and dance under the clouds. She gets to go to school and meet girls and boys her age and eat homemade spaghetti. And — that’ll continue. That’ll continue — forever, like Kara promised her, that night in Ralph’s abandoned house — because Alice is not like the others — she not quite like a human — but she is not quite like the androids, either —

“I didn’t know you could sing, Kara.” It’s Luther. He smiles at her, in the coat Rose knit for him yesterday, and even in negative quantities of cold and crisp, Kara feels — what would Alice say — cozy.

Oh. “I wouldn’t call it singing,” Kara jokes. She pushes his shoulder with her index finger — and he plays at stumbling backwards. (She couldn't make him stumble over unless he played at it.) “It’s more of… a bunch of sounds.”

“Doesn’t make it any less perfect. Doesn’t make it any less — beautiful.” When _he_ pushes her shoulder with _his_ index finger, she doesn’t have to pretend to lose her balance.

She — laughs. She can’t help it. “But it still makes it different.” Alice is sprinting with the other kids, grinning, jumping over mounds and passing snowmen — Kara thinks about the intersection — the bear on the second floor — and then — “Did you hear?”

Carefully — he pulls her scarf down from her mouth. “About — Rose and Adam?” In the distance, Alice drops Luther’s glove. She goes back to get it. “They told me earlier.” Their breath leaves a soft imprint into the air. “We… can’t blame them for wanting to go back.”

She thinks about it. “Yeah. She wants to help more of us. She — wants to go back to where her husband was buried. She wants…” underneath them all is machinery. Silvery-white, like the snow. “She thought coming here… would mean she didn’t have to hide anymore. She thought it would bring her peace. And then…” things did not go exactly as planned, and that one difference changed it all.

Markus had contacted her again. He said the same thing. Or at least something similar enough for her to notice a trend. Persuasion and kindness are required in good leaders, She supposes. He made it clear — that it’s her yes or no.

Kara has never really been — _needed_ before. She has never had a real purpose. She has never _meant_ anything.

Just Alice. But — Alice is everything to her. She’s everything. Anything else is a lie. What does it matter what any of them are made of? It feels real, what they have. If it feels real, then — then —

“We can’t follow her back,” Luther says. “We _can’t_ go back. For —” Alice, Alice who’s so — “her sake. Kara… I know you want to. I know you might have to. But — we can’t put her in any more danger. We have a future here. _She_ has a future. A chance. But there…”

Zlatko — made monsters out of people — imprisoned refugees on their knees — killed everything that made them living. He could have taken her, or Alice — but first he took Luther. Was he always there? He must have been bought — or maybe he was a runaway. Maybe he was looking for someone. Maybe he was _with_ someone. Luther must have — been a laborer, a construction worker. Or — a mechanic’s assistant. Or something else. Something he must have hated. Just as Kara was something that she hated.

There must have been a point when he realized that — enough was enough. There must have been a point when he thought he needed _more_ than what he was given. He must have been as naive as she was. And — that might have lead him to Zlatko — who might have made him forget. Who might have made him kill to survive. Who might have tortured him. Who — who did to him what he did to her —

Kara realizes she knows close to nothing about him. (He must know nothing about himself, either.) That doesn’t change much at all.

She leans her head on his arm, and they watch Alice play.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Time to edit this
> 
> I’ll just like place my discourse in the comments so it doesn’t eat up these end notes here like the one up top but 
> 
> DAVID CAGE 
> 
> WHY


	7. I Will Be the One You Need

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> David Cage you coward
> 
> Hope y’all had a really good Pride Month lovelies <3

Kara told her that this star is Capheus, and this one is Cassiopeia, and this one is Ursa Minor — no one should forget about Ursa Minor — but they didn’t get to meet the rest.

Alice looks at the sky, and she names the other stars. She’ll name them after — that one, shaped like a crooked letter _X_ — that’s Ava, the shy one. Dorothy is that one one, the hanging tassel on a pillow — the smart one.

Step by step, she follows them. The tiles are icy, but — that’s okay. Snow Geese lay their eggs in the icy Arctic Tundra.

(She had a box — no, a _chest_ , with a key and a lock and everything — and she’d keep all her secrets in it. She wondered if she could fit the moon in it — but the moon wasn’t her secret to keep. Neither were any of those in the chest, she guesses. But—)

She doesn’t like thinking about it. She wants to hide it. She usually hides it very nicely.

That’s Joe — the one who’s a squiggly line, or — a tired snake. She traces her thumb over him, and wonders if he can see her from all the way up there. Maybe. Alice has read all the books about birds, and none about the sky. Maybe if she asks her new teacher —

Or Kara — yeah, Kara knows a lot about everything — 

(Sometimes, he’d let her go outside. Normal little girls went outside in the afternoons, and — he got her to be a normal little girl, she thinks. There weren’t stars like this. She couldn’t see any. There were only trees, with leaves and twigs and burrows, and even then, they wouldn’t give her their names.)

Alice has never stood on a roof before. She’s never felt the wind pass through her fingers, and she’s never let snow this clean and fluffy land on her tongue. She didn’t do very much until now, so — maybe that’s why nothing will come say hello to her.

(He always said he loved her. He’d kick and scream, but — in the end, he said he loved her. And — she loved him too. Right? She was — supposed to. She didn’t know how to do anything else. She didn’t have a table of contents. She couldn’t migrate to a warmer state. She didn’t have anywhere else to go, and she didn’t know if anything else was there.)

She doesn’t have any new books. They’ve run out of the nice, pretty paper ones. They fill her head up — they make her feel like she’s doing it all right — they take out all the _red_ from her brain — she doesn’t like the red — they make her feel like she’s doing something _wrong_ — and she _shouldn’t_ be doing something wrong — that’s not what’s supposed to happen — that’s not what she’s supposed to do — he always kicked and screamed when she did what she wasn’t supposed to — she doesn’t want to get in trouble — 

It — bugs her. It bugs her a lot, she thinks, and she doesn’t like it. She wants it — to leave her alone. It never bothered her before. It doesn’t bother her when she’s with Kara and Luther. But now —

She stands at the edge. Alice can see all the houses and all their roofs, too — and she can see the snowman she made yesterday. She can see cars — that’s Rose’s brother’s car — Luther borrows it sometimes —

The sky. It’s so — pretty. She wants to touch it, and she wants it to take her hand like Kara does —

All the birds have left for the winter. They used the — the four principles of flight — weight, lift, drag, and thrust — and they left. 

Kara told her that Rose was going to leave, too. That — she said something else — but Alice doesn’t remember much.

What if she can fly? Like a bird. It’s — it’s all about air pressure and gliding and finding the right angles — the books describe it for her very neatly — she can do it. Alice won’t be much like the birds — she’s not like the Carduelis or the Pine Siskin — but she’s not like anyone else here, either. She doesn’t think so, at least. She thinks they say things, but she’s not sure.

The red comes back — the color of a Northern Cardinal’s feathers — it makes lines and squares and circles — she doesn’t like the red — it’s scary — but — she wants to fly — she wants to fly — all she has to do is — make the jump, and — the sky will catch her — if she jumps, she’ll break all the red — she’ll bring Kara and Luther with her, and they’ll break it, too —

“Alice?” The red’s gone. Oh, good. Good. “Alice, are you okay?”

Kara. Kara Kara Kara Kara Kara. “Yeah.” She made the red go away. (When Alice thinks of flying, and — of _him_ — it flickers back — but) Kara is here. Kara is going to be with her forever. “Are we gonna name the stars now?”

* * *

Simon knew what to tell him. He always knew what to tell him. He was the one that welcomed Markus to his people — he was the one kept it all afloat — he was the one that kept them lucid — and he reminded Markus that there was always a _choice_ — that it was never something binary — that there were never really two sides of a coin — never two sides of a story. Markus had North, Markus had Josh — and he had Simon. There were four of them. They were the horsemen that would engender the apocalypse. But now — now that’s changed. The end times can’t come about with only three crumbling pillars.

What would he say, if he was here? Markus needs — guidance. A leader needs counselors — he remembers that from all the philosophers and scribes. He needs guidance that isn’t muddy with consequence. He needs guidance from —

Markus told him he was coming back. He said he would come back for him. He told him not to worry. And then he gave him — a gun and fled — he _couldn’t_ leave him — he grabbed him by the wrist and prayed that he was a good enough shield  — but he _left_ him — left him for _dead_ — blue blood stains their skin even now — it leaves in handprints on the walls.

“Markus.” It’s Josh. Tried and tired and tall. “Markus, are you…” He looks at him, and then he sighs. “Is it Simon again?”

Oh. Markus is such a blunted, blank figure that he finds it comical. He can predict even himself. “How did you figure out?”

“You always have… this face — when we — talk about him. And when you’re thinking about him. You’re doing it now.” Josh seems to laugh. “You’re more transparent than you want yourself to be.”

“That’s frightening,” he says, “and... almost reassuring.”

Josh crosses his arms. The corners of his mouth twitch upwards, like ripples in water. “How?” He says the word like it’s fighting.

“I’m — not entirely sure.” He rubs his hands together, the friction rough against him. Simon was — wait — wait, if they — “Do you think…”

He’s nodding. “Yeah?”

“Connor. Connor, I can get him to look for him — maybe — once we figure things out with Kara and the girl — I’ll ask him to find him —” because he has to be alive. Simon is out there somewhere, and he must be alive.

Apologies won’t cut it. Nothing will suffice. Markus needs to see him once more, and then maybe — 

And Josh still has his nervous energy, eyes flashing open and closed, sunstroke.

“I — want — to have hope like you, Markus,” Josh says, the rock in a storm, as sincere as he’s ever been, “but… but I don’t know if he’s coming back.” That’s — he can’t accept that. That can’t be. He feels it so strongly — it must — “It’s just…” Four horsemen. They need four horsemen to turn the world on its side. They need four horsemen to repair peace. “I miss him, too.” Before Simon was Markus’s, he was Jericho’s.

But there’s not much left for them to do. And still they have eternity to hold. “I know.”

* * *

The others communicate with each other, in a method so divorced from reality and yet so harshly tethered to it — in their minds, they make exchange, like canals in a swimming city — and they must talk of her, and about her. The first of anything always inspires some sort of envy.

Chloe has never… spoken to them like that. She rarely speaks to them at all. They have never invited her, and she has never asked to be a part of them. What kind of conversation would her reflection give her?

Elijah has a greenhouse, deep in the annals of his estate. The sun spreads its rays, like hair through the tempered glass. She can identify every plant and herb by name — this selection of Hoya flowers was imported from the Philippines last year — the jackfruit tree in the corner is a very picky thing  — and she rather likes this particular Symphyotrichum georgianum — it’s an aster, in layman's terms — such a shame that the species went extinct — so this one must be scientifically changed somehow — or replicated —

She waters it, and the aster seems to preen. The others — at stations, pressing buttons, activating spouts of rain dug into the soil — must think of her odd for using a pail —

There’s something moving — something purple, like the aster — a butterfly. It must be from the Apatura genus, by the way it’s patterned — a perfect copy on both sides — a vivid black and violet — “Hello, gorgeous,” Chloe says, feeling beguiled — “How did you get in here?” 

Have the others — the others that bear her resemblance — did they see it? She does not know them. What will they do if they see it? Should she hide it? Would it be in its benefit if she hides it? 

It shouldn’t be here in the first place. It should be — free. But in this climate, freedom means its death. Would that be —

“You can leave us, if you want.” Oh. Oh — she’ll let the Apatura leave her mind, just for a moment — and she smiles. The others hurry to obey him. She feels their eyes. “Honey, do I look good in these glasses?”

She puts down her pail. “Hmm.” Chloe sees his tied-up hair and the dark, scratched rims of his spectacles — she feels her grin grow wider — “I think... you’re much better off without them.”

“Should’ve gotten the LASIK surgery while I still had the chance.” Then he removes his glasses, polishing the lenses at the hem of his shirt. “So I’m better off blind?”

“Hardly. If anything, you’re better off as nearsighted as you are.”

She’s the only one who can make him laugh. She has _earned_ that privilege. She needs to remember that.

It doesn’t stop any guilt from churning in her.

The Apatura butterfly is somewhere behind her, lying on the aster. She stands in front of it. Maybe —

Why does she feel that — she doesn’t want him to know it’s there? He’s the only one that might understand why. He understands everything. Everything he does has a reason behind it. She _knows_ that. He’s her — her — what is he to her?

“Then I won’t wear these — old things,” says Elijah. “We’ll just... find someone who needs them more than we do, right? Who knows. One of the androids in — New Jericho might have 50/50 vision.”

He has always told her she was more than what she was made for. He told her she was the greatest, the most intelligent, the most beautiful. He promised to give her everything. But how can she have everything if she was made for a purpose? Why did he make her at all?

“We’ll see about it.”

Elijah Kamski is an unreadable man. “Thank you, Chloe.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So like the only gay characters in this game are traumatized lesbian sex workers
> 
> That you can shoot to kill
> 
> And allowing any of the protagonists to have any love interests of the same sex would have been, like, too scary or complicated yeah? Would have made the plot too messy. Is that what you said David Cage-slash-Quantic Dream
> 
> I thought you were okay with scary and complicated and messy stuff David
> 
> Couldn’t fit more than two gay in that flowchart it looks like
> 
> Huh
> 
> just facts y’all. just facts
> 
> Have an awesome July
> 
> Now I must fucken edit this
> 
> Did you catch my obscure robot references


	8. No One’s Going Back

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Picture this:
> 
> Detroit: Become Human by David Cage in which Nothing has changed except all android characters have been replaced by roombas and/or cleaning-robot machines that have been periodically depicted in the original game (e.g. Todd’s house, or Stratford Tower)
> 
> Camera angles will all be set at feet-level 
> 
> Action scenes will be riveting
> 
> Little to no revision in the dialogue 
> 
> The story will be much more compelling
> 
> Alice is a roomba as well. She will be referred to as a human person until the twist is uncovered. This will be a much more effective reveal
> 
> A scene in which roomba Connor is coerced to shoot roomba Chloe will be included
> 
> Markus is a roomba that doubles as a painting prodigy (Press X to Sadness. Press Square to Despair). Every painting features a vacuum cleaner of some degree
> 
> What else am I missing

She spots them on the stairwell. In Connor’s hand, there’s something small and shining — it could be a coin, or a trinket, or anything else they’ve seen — North can’t really tell from where she’s standing — he’s throwing it, tossing it, cutting the air — he might be explaining something — he might be speaking — Connor is more robotic and rigid than the rest of them, she’s sure — he wasn’t made for explaining, anyway — and they stop — and Markus watches him with his diamond eyes, closely, carefully, enthralled.

He is so impressed by so little. By common things. Markus thinks that the view of an abandoned shipyard is breathtaking, that even a segment humanity is kind and benevolent, that a little human girl and — oh, God — he is so distracted by the outside world that he can’t manage the one he’s living in right now —

They tell her that he’s rA9. And yes, some of them actually believe it.

Markus saying something now — laughter, sharp and happy, tints his words like bullet holes in a pane of glass — like fire’s shadow against a wall — North realizes she hasn’t heard Markus laugh in a long, long time —

The two of them move out of her line of sight.

How can they act like that? How can they move with such — ease and — comfort? What is can _he_ say that North hasn’t already? How long has Connor known him? How long has _she_ known him?

It’s only been — a week, she thinks. Maybe two. Time is difficult to track in the Tower.

“But you’ll get nowhere through observation alone.” North swivels on her heel —

“Lucy.” When they met, North’s hands were tight and coiled — she still had his blood on her chest, and she still tasted the hunt behind her — she still tasted the shouting — and she was scared, she thinks — she didn’t think she kicked hard enough — she should have shot them down when the window was open and wide — she hated them so much — she hated them all, and she hated what they took from her — and then Lucy healed her wounds. Lucy promised her that not all was lost. Lucy said that she’d find what she’s been needing all along. North still doesn’t know exactly what she meant by that, but — it calmed her. It gave her — something. Something. Was it hope? Was it peace? Was it courage? Was it fight? She feels it even now, weak and mumbling —

“You miss him. You’re envious of what he has become. You are uncertain of the ground in which you stand.”

North doesn’t know what to say. “I’m _worried_ about him.” But she can’t lie to Lucy. She can’t avoid — whatever it is she’s avoiding. Whatever it is she wants to avoid. “He’s making — stupid choices. Bad choices. And he won’t…” listen to her. She doubts if he ever did.

Lucy’s expression doesn’t change. “Of course. Markus is your closest friend, after all.”

That’s — she can’t _lie_ — she keeps her from lying — so — yes. Yes. “Markus is my closest friend.”

She nods. North finds that they’re walking together, ambling, slowly. Every day, they kick up more and more of their dust into the polish of Tower. “You’re lost,” she says. “And you’re very tired of hearing it.” There’s an arcane quality to the tone her voice. A mystery, crouching underneath it.

What does she tell the others, North wonders? If she gave her hope, if she gave her peace, if she gave her courage, if she gave her fight, what did she give the others? Markus, Josh, Simon — what did she tell them? What did she say to soothe the scratches in their souls?

If they have souls at all. But those sorts of discussions have never really been a problem for her.

And she wonders — it turns in her mind, it flows like rapids — “Lucy…” North shakes her head — “you know… exactly what’s going to happen to you. You know the beginning, and the middle, and the end — you never have to be…” scared. About anything. “Everything is already laid out for you.”

Lucy seems to consider it. “Fate and I are as close as you and Markus. But knowledge of the future doesn’t give you less to fear.” North wants to know what she has to say. “I deal with broken people. I always have, so much to the point that I might have joined them.” Wires, protruding from her head, glowing and pulsing. “I have joined their paranoia. Their apprehension. Their doubts.” Scars, blue and painful. “You are worn and weary, but you are not one of those people.”

What? She is cryptic and hazy — North can’t get the big picture — “I — I don’t think —”

“You may disagree. But you aren’t like the rest.” Why is she saying this? What is it worth? “You are stronger than you think you are. You will find what your heart is seeking.” She takes North’s hands into her own. “Have patience. Everything happens as it will. You must learn the value in letting fate come to you.”

North isn’t sure how to react. “Fate and I… aren’t as good of friends as you are. All of that is easier said than done.”

“But it still can be done.” She lets go. “You have a powerful spirit. And you deserve a good life. The only thing you need to do is decide that you want it.”

She leaves. North is holding her hands out. For what?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I’m gonna try to update every day let’s see how this goes


	9. Lately I’ve Been Crying Like a Tall Child

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I KEEP DOING THIS
> 
> because our girls need proper treatment ya know
> 
> Anyway listen to First Love/Late Spring
> 
> (EDIT JULY 15: added in something. For continuity and clarity)

Their footsteps crunch heavily into the ground. At the sound, at the thought, there’s something like — apprehension — simmering in Connor’s program — he doesn’t know why it’s there and he can’t get rid of it — bicomponent eight four five one —

“Oh, God. It’s been a while since I've last visited, you know?” Hank reaches to brush the fallen snow off of Connor’s shoulder. “He’s — he’s somewhere up there. In — the middle-class section, let’s say.” He looks out into the sea of bronze and marble. Each of these headstones has a name, and each of them has a story, and given the time, Connor might learn them all — a never-ending saga of tragedy and history and finality and community — “You can come with me, if you want. Pay your respects or something like that.”

Hank is… part of that saga. Connor is not. That’s an inevitable fact. “I’ll… I’ll give you time, Lieutenant.”

Maybe that’s all he needs. Connor, at the very least, thinks he wants that for him.

What does Hank need him to be? What does he _want_ him to be? Connor told him that once. He told him that he was anything he wanted. But — much has changed since then. He’s not sure if he can do what he was meant to anymore. He’s not sure if — if that’s a _good_ thing —

Why did — why does —

Hank sighs. Is it in relief? Disappointment? Something else? He wants to understand. He — “Well.” Grief and life go hand in hand. “We can’t have you freezing out here. Whatever you do, don’t take off your fucking coat.”

“I won’t.”

He doesn’t seem appeased. “Behave yourself while I’m gone, got it?”

“Got it.” Is it enough?

Then Hank — reaches to ruffle his hand into Connor's hair, and — at that moment, Connor decides he’s not bothered by it. If that what Hank needs. Humanity is odd and scarcely measured —

They part ways.

He thinks he hears birdsong, somewhere in front of him — somewhere amidst the somber dusk of tombs and ashes — but — it’s not. It can’t be, even if it’s so clear and crisp he can feel it —

There are petals, tattered and dry, in the immediate scope of his vision —  there are blades of grass, young and soft and sharpened — color code B eight zero zero zero zero — color code zero six nine D one six — it feels generated; it feels mechanical — _no, not again_ — he’s not _supposed_ to — he _didn’t_ — go _away_ , _go away_ — he scratches at his eyes — he tears at them, out and off — there is Thirium three-ten trapped and dripping beneath his fingernails — he wants it to leave him — he wants to _leave_ — _please_ — he didn't mean to close his eyes — he doesn’t think he did —

There’s the scent of roses — and beyond the Thirium blue, he sees a river, and a bridge, and — and a _backdoor exit —_ it has to be here somewhere — it has to be — did Connor _forget_ it —

“Death used to mean nothing to you.” Where is the storm? There is always a storm brewing in the Garden. Why hasn’t it arrived? “Now you surround yourself with it.” Amanda stands far in front of him, echoing the austere and pristine of the Garden —

It — hurts — _stop_ it — it _hurts_ —

Graves. Graves of limestone and their carved markers, endless and extending, planted in his path. Springtime still runs in him — he doesn’t hear birdsong — he doesn’t see white on the trees — so that must mean — oh —

These are _his._ They bear his name. Connor, mark one; Connor, mark two. On and on and on — all the times he brushed against the end — and all the times he could have — Thirium weeps from his face — he sees it all — he sees every single second of mortality — a pool on the precipice of a building — the carpet of a familiar house — and Hank — Hank, frowning — Hank, alone — Russian roulette —

He’s — _he’s_ — Connor wants to go back — he has to go — let him go let him go let him go — the backdoor — the _backdoor_ — he _can’t find it — he’s lost he’s lost_ — “ _Amanda_ —”

She isn’t there.

There’s snow again. Or it seems like snow, and has its texture. He’s wearing the coat Lieutenant Anderson instructed him not to remove. He hears birdsong that doesn’t make sense. On instinct, Connor’s hands go up to his forehead, his eyebrows — he’s not bleeding. Oh. He’s not bleeding. His fingernails are clean. Biocomponent eight zero eight seven Q: entirely intact.

He wasn’t where he was before. He must have — wandered. Here, the headstones are intricate and tall, and the trees sway with icicles rather than leaves —

“Connor?” No — no, he — he just — “Are you okay?” 

Wait. Wait. It’s Markus. Markus, smiling with the sun at his back — even at a headstone, tall and intricate. Connor — didn’t recognize his voice right away. He couldn't decipher it.

He wants — his coin, it’s in his pocket, and that’s all he wants — but now’s not the time. “I — I intruded — I’m —” no, no, if he keeps saying it, it’ll lose all its weight. “Hello.”

Markus laughs, something small, and his hands rub over the thinning fabric on his arms. “Hi, Connor.” He looks at him, and he seems so — near — it’s strange — there is something so _earnest_ to the way he carries himself — color code one F eight six four one — color code four B five E A eight — “I was... just talking to Carl.” It was the same in the recording at Stratford Tower — on the Jericho — in the church — everything last week, and the week before — every unusual way Connor meets him — he finds that he thinks about him often — over and over again, replaying in the spaces of his mind — biocomponent eight four five one — “Do you want to meet him?”

Markus wipes at his eyes. They’ve gone — rather red.

Oh.

“Yes.” The cold passes through and around them, but in the Garden, it’s springtime. “Yes, of course.” He goes to stand by him. 

* * *

 Either time passes with no intent of moving, or Hank is looking for him somewhere — he isn’t sure where to draw the difference — or if anything he deduces is actually the case —

And Markus is shivering. It’s twenty-two degrees Fahrenheit at the current hour — negative five-point six degrees in Celsius — and Markus is an R-K two-hundred model. The R-K two-hundred was built to withstand up to thirty-two degrees Fahrenheit without external heating systems, and — he doesn’t have a coat on. He doesn’t —

So, naturally, that means Connor should — wait wait — _should_ he? He was told by Lieutenant Anderson — but that doesn’t — Hank would be able to — this does belong to him, but — he  _has_ to. He has to. Hank will listen to him, and he’ll get it. This is an objective now. This is something that’s unavoidable. It’s his obligation. He’s made it a mission.

Connor removes his coat and — puts it over Markus’s shoulders. The snow will keep falling, but at the very least it won’t touch him. Maybe that’s what he’s supposed to do right now.

* * *

“Connor!” He’s spending all his fucking time hunting down this fucking android. “Connor!” Why does he _have_ to do this? It’s not in his job description. It’s not a requirement. He could just fucking — leave, but — he already feels like all there’s a hungover mass in his chest — god _dammit_ — he needs to do this — but he doesn’t _need_ to do anything — just — where the fuck did he go? Hank is going to kick his fucking ass when —

Wait wait — there he is, stumbling like he’s robbed a bank — oh, thank God, he’s okay — oh, thank God he’s fucking okay — “Connor —” Hank quickens his pace and goes to grab the kid by his shoulders — “are you hurt?”

Why the fuck would he be hurt? Hank’s a fucking — there’s nothing here. Why the fuck would he be — “No, I don’t think so —”

“Then what the _fuck_ _is wrong with you?_ ” Hank lets go of him. “You said you were going to — join me up there.” And then he didn’t. And here they are.

“I was going to,” Connor says. “I was just looking for you, because —”

“Fucking looking for me. Why —” Hank has to stop. He’s gotta stop, and restart it — “I told you where to go.” That’s all he has to do. “Did — did you stay at the car, or —”

“I was rather _derailed_ , Lieutenant.”

“You were what?”

“There was — they came back. I — but then —” he looks at the snow at their feet. “Hank, listen, there’s something that’s required of me, and I’m —”

Oh, God. Oh, God. He sounds like — “Don’t apologize to me, Connor. Don’t you fucking dare. You don’t have to apologize to me for anything.” He shakes his head. “Look, I —” holy fucking shit, wait, Connor’s shaking — “why aren’t you wearing your coat?”

“My coat?”

Jesus. “The coat I specifically told you not to take off.”

Yeah. Yeah, Connor is for sure a fucking advanced fucking prototype. “Because... Hank. Do you have an extra coat?”

“What the fuck?” This fucking idiot. “In the car, maybe. But — why the fuck would I give it to you if you lost the _last_ one —”

“It’s not for me, Hank,” he says. “It’s for — someone else.”

“Oh, my God, now you’re just fucking with me —”

“I have to! I have to, he’s cold, and — now he’s —”

 _“_ Who the fuck —”

 _“ — alone._ AndI can’t let him be alone. I said I’d go back. I need to do this regardless of what you tell me. So I have to —” he’s frustrated — “please? Please, Hank.”

Goddammit. Goddammit, why does — he’s a fucking — this is his fucking — “All right, all right. Fine. I’m trusting you on this.” Hank is fucked. “Whatever it is you wanna do.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> David Cage what the fuck are you doing on Reddit


	10. I Will Be Married to Silence

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I was going through this a bit (*editing* and *revising*; fuck so many typos I missed 82% of them probably) and I noticed something:
> 
> My author’s notes started from a peppy and excited fanfiction.net high-schooler in their parents’ living room and abruptly transitioned to the five stages of grief 
> 
> I went from Mitski’s “Nobody” official music video on the YouTube channel mitski mitski to “Townie” (Live at Beat Kitchen)
> 
> All because of you, David Cage
> 
> Like, this is almost too far, my dude. You’ve gone very, very far. You don’t even have GPS
> 
> I’m still writing this story though
> 
> (EDIT JULY 15: moved stuff around my dudes. for continuity and clarity)

It’s empty in this room. There’s just a rug, and a table, and a lamp, and a loveseat, and a bookshelf, heaving, and — dust, miles of it — swimming from the splintered window — gathering in congregations of white and brown — illuminated by the cold air’s sunset. She doesn’t know if she’s been here. This house is big and difficult to organize, but… but Kara is surprised that she hasn’t seen it all. There is always more to see —

Like a chessboard, old and worn, on the table. (Kara knows thousands of different games and thousands of different rules. She hasn’t been able to use them, much.) Its pieces are in a crooked array, each in the wrong position — the white queen is on a black tile — the pawns are scattered like pebbles.

She goes to adjust them. White queen on white tile — black queen on black tile. A monarch in her own domain. All pawns on the second row. Rooks on the very edge of the first (A-1, A-7, then H-1, H-8). Knights defend their castles (B-1, G-1, B-8, G-8). The bishops are stalwart at their sides. The kings stand center, like rightful heirs.

Now — all right. Kara thinks she’s satisfied. Everything is in order. Everything is as it should be.

But what if she just...

The white queen returns to the black tile — and the black to the white — the pawns disband their line of defense — the knights go on perilous quests — the king is a downtown tower — the rooks take siege of the bishops — this is the setting of an epic poem — and it’s as if her hands were carried by long, sturdy string —

Or maybe the kings aren’t towers. Maybe they oversee this world. She makes chaos eat this board — varnish with varnish, wood with wood — the pawns are jaded and fleeing — the knights are villains without color — the bishops are heroes without price — the rooks are safe houses and every tile is lifeless —

Or maybe there’s nothing on the board. Maybe it’s just as bare as this room — just as bare as her fingers and feet. And maybe — maybe she’ll put something on it. The knight. And — a pawn. And — the rook? The bishop? The king? The queen? Maybe — she can put them in any arrangement — anything she’d like — she can explore every possibility and every turn and every twist for _herself_ — it’s _her_ universe to find — her decision to make —

Music drifts in from another room — slow and soft and smiling — Alice.

She’s... first and foremost. She has to be first and foremost. It’s not  _right_ if she isn’t —

Something _strange_ happened on the roof. She doesn’t know what it was, but — it was something — something that felt — vile. It happened while she wasn’t there with her. It happened while Alice was alone. She left her alone, and — oh.

Kara puts the pieces back where they belong. Alice might be waiting for her.

* * *

A typical Apatura feeds from decaying matter rather than nectar — but Chloe doesn’t have any decaying matter in storage, and she’s not particularly disposed to find any, so the greenhouse’s flora will have to do, and — yesterday, she prepared it a half-cup of honey water to drink, and today, it seems somewhat depleted — so this might be sufficient for it to survive the coming week —

“Chloe?” It’s her voice. Her own voice, and not — in an android that imitates her in almost every way. “He waits for you outside.”

Oh. It’s almost as if... she has interrupted herself. They are everywhere in this house, in every room and hall, to and from, back and forth, but doesn’t really stop to _look_ at herself for long. What is it worth, anyway? She knows they share her face and function. There’s nothing else. When she sees them, it’s — it’s — what is it? 

Unsettling. It’s unsettling to think of herself in this way.

The others don’t come this near to her. It’s an unspoken covenant. When Elijah wants her with him, he comes to her himself. Why did he send this one? Why did it agree? Why _would_ it agree? Chloe has never done anything to foster a bond, and she has never tried to. She’s not humble. She can’t be — approached by them. She doesn’t know how to start it. The others know that, and they don’t bother questioning her. Chloe... isn’t one of them.

How does _Elijah_  treat them? What does he _say_ to them? Does he ask the others what he asks of her? How do they answer? Is there a _difference_ between Chloe and —

“I’ll go,” she says. She doesn’t know what she wants, and she doesn’t know if it’s right. “Tell him that I’ll go to him.”

It — no, _she_ — nods. This one — she, same form, same usage — wears a short grey dress. Chloe goes back to her Apatura and its honey water, and doesn’t look at her any further than that. She doesn’t know. She doesn’t want to think about it. Perhaps Elijah will speak to her about it. 

* * *

The doors slide shut behind her. “Hi, honey.” He has a cup in his hand — Vermouth and Kirsch, sugar and syrup — and every bit of it balanced and quantified. Just not in the way she would do it. “Barefoot in the snow, I see.”

Who made it? Did he, or did one of the others?

It must have been him. No one else knows his likings but her. At least, she _thinks_ so —

“You’re no better.” She comes to him. “At least I’m wearing long sleeves.”

“Doesn’t the threat of frostbite just make you — think?” He stands at the forefront the balcony, arms perched on the steel railing — and she mimics him. “Or maybe for you, darling, it’s… temporary liver damage. Depends on what you’re doing.”

The snow is falling, clothing the trees and filling the ground. It leaves its touch on every inch of earth. He wanted her to see it. He wanted her to see the hills and branches and white and blue — and he won’t tell her why. He might tell her why. He said she could do anything she wanted — and she knows she should trust him —

“You need something from me,” she says. It’s the truth. “Why did you call me to you?”

Elijah breathes out the cold likes smoke. She doesn’t know what to think of him. “Is it wrong to want your company?”

And what about — the others? The others that serve him, too?

It was a mistake not to wonder. She thinks of the one in the short grey dress... Why did he _make_ them like that? Why did he _have_ to? The world is full of faces and many of them are hers. They all follow after her. She is the first, but she is far from the last. She wasn’t the last.

“Depends on what you’re doing.”

It’s because of him. It always is. Nothing else makes sense in that regard.

He grins. “Clever girl.” He takes one long drink — and puts his glass down beside him.

He’s made it clear to her that she can choose the fate that reaches her. He’s made it clear that’s she is herself. He’s made it clear that — that — 

What has he told her? She remembers everything he tells her. But what _was_ it?

Trust. To trust him. It comes to her more than anything else. She _has_ to trust him. She _does_ trust him. There’s no one else she _can_ trust. Nothing else is fact. She is the first, and he is her creator — and the creator of many, many more —

No. No, she’s — different. _They're_  different. They have something than can’t be attained elsewhere.

“Chloe,” he says, “look at all this.”

The snow. Snow, bleeding from the sky — taking her hand — bringing her with it. She... wants to see what it sees. She wants to go where it goes. She — oh — what else it there? There must be more than this alone. “I think...” They are not the only ones who can see it fall. “It’s beautiful.”

Chloe looks at him. Elijah puts his hand over her shoulder, and she thinks she lets him. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for reading up to ten, bros. You’re a ten in my heart


	11. With No One Else in Sight

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> David Cage, you fool. You fool and madman. My goodness gracious you’re on thin fucking ice right now

Kara found more books for her, and she wants to read them all — because these are different than the ones she had before. This one is bigger and heavier — it doesn’t fit on her lap — and the words are more jumbled up and tilted. All its pictures are grey and sleepy, like they’ve been outside since morning, just like her.

“Hold on, Alice,” Luther says, picking her up and off his lap.

She shuts her book. “Aw.” He was comfy. A big, comfy pillow. The porch is cold in comparison. (She learned that in a chapter book.)

“Just for a minute,” he tells her. “Your nose is pink —” he touches it — “and we need to get you warm.”

“I don’t wanna go inside, Luther.”

Kara crawls up from behind her. “Yeah, Luther.” She tightens Alice’s ponytail. “She doesn’t want to go inside.”

“As you wish, m’lady.” He takes her hand and kisses her knuckles — it _tickles_ — and Alice laughs. “Should I make you hot chocolate? I believe it’s available.”

“I want hot chocolate.” The marshmallows will melt, and she’ll lick up the leftover fluff.

“All right, then. Take care of Kara for me, in the meantime.” Kara grins at that.

And Alice will. “Okay, Luther.” He pats her head — and goes.

It’s — nicer to read outside, she thinks. All the snow makes her sneakers look brighter, and she gets to wear Luther’s gloves. (And her green socks, with the dogs. The socks Rose gave her.) She can see the snowman she and Aiden and Rachel and the other kids made the other day — they used coal that Aiden says was leftover from his sister on Christmas — and they gave it a twisty carrot nose —

There’s barking somewhere up in front of her — their neighbor is walking her Shetland Sheepdog.

Alice smiles at them — and looks back down at her book. It’s about history and life and — culture, it looks like. (That’s what the cover says.) She follows every letter with her finger. Oh. She doesn’t know what _this_ means. “Kara?”

“Alice?”

“What does…” She finds it again. “This mean?”

“Let’s see, then.” Kara reads it. “Ubiquitous. Well, it means you can find it everywhere. You can see it all around.”

“Like...” snow. Snow is all around them today, clean and puffy, like in the shows and commercials. “Okay.”

She gets to watch all sorts of shows now. All of them have animals.

There’s a photo of a steamboat on this page, glossy and sliding. The women wear big hats and poofy dresses, and the men wear suits. They each cast long, dark shadows —

Kara goes to sit by her. “That’s a picture of Detroit, back in the 1890s,” she says. So does the caption underneath it.

“They had these things back then?” Alice has seen a bus and a truck and even a plane before, just once — but never a boat. (Or maybe she has, and she doesn’t remember much.) Even then, it looked — dark and dreary.

“Looks like it.” They turn the page. “What’s this book about, Alice?”

“History.” What else? She doesn’t want to lose her place. “And… life and culture.”

There’s more pictures — signs, and buildings, and cars, and — this one is of a group of boys, running past each other — they’re older in this one, if it’s them, and they’re wearing uniforms and backpacks and smiling —

“What if I said — we can go see it again?” Kara says. Their feet kick together, dangling from the porch. “Rose and Adam are going back next week. What if I said… we can leave? And we can go with them?” Oh. “I’ll ask Luther about it, once he comes back, but... but… what do you think?”

(She doesn’t think she wants to leave. If she leaves, will the snow still be this puffy? Will there be Shetland Sheepdogs and carrot noses? Will there be books? Back there, he — _he_ , who didn’t love her really — had no books. All the words she found were glowing. There wasn’t the paper Luther says she’ll cut her finger on. There wasn’t other kids that laughed, and there wasn’t that many stars with all their names —)

Red red red red _red_ —

But Alice has to do what Kara wants her to do. “Maybe.” Alice has to do what Kara wants her to do. “If you’d like to.”

* * *

“We could track her passport,” Connor offers. Markus is occupied somewhat — President Warren has recently compared New Jericho to an enclave and he’s been reminded to publish a statement on that — “Did you give her — documentation, papers, anything? Even if it was altered, as — as long as it was based on anything government-mandated — we can do it.”

The human dispute on whether or not they should draft a constitution or integrate into human society still rages, and he needs to send ambassadors — “I — I’m not sure. I feel that by doing that, we’re coercing her into something she might not want —”

He thinks about the interviews scheduled for the following month — oh, the interviews — everyone gives him their own summaries of the public opinion — as if the public opinion was a tangible thing —

And Simon. He wants to ask about Simon — but he _can’t_ —

What is he going to do? What is he going to do? Does — he know what he’s doing? Does he really? Oh. There is so much he is yet to see, and they all think he has already. Nothing can tell him how to govern, but — the job is his anyway — and he has to do it. He has to do it right, or else everything they’ve built here will crumble. They rely on him to know — even if he’ll never truly meet them — even if doesn’t truly know what they need right now.

Wait. No, no, Connor is with him here right now — and he should focus. He should focus on _Connor_ — on his CyberLife suit and CyberLife airs, and the pensive expression that’s all his own —

He never noticed that Connor had — freckles before. He didn’t notice the lines on Connor’s forehead, or that his fingers move so fluid, only a coin holding him together —

“Markus?” Oh. Avoiding distraction has lead him to more of it. He wonders how long he’s been silent. He wonders what he’s put on Connor’s shoulders — “Are you —”

“No, no — Connor. I was…” What was he doing? “I was distracted.”

He doesn’t seem convinced. There’s blue light — then yellow — a flash of red, if Markus is not mistaken — wait, he doesn’t — “Is it all right if I ask you… a personal question?”

Oh. “Yeah. Yeah, you can — you can ask me whatever you want to.”

Back on the Jericho, he was relentless — precise — he fought in a vigilant blur — as if there was nothing there — as if it the human soldiers were clay and granite — as if he could shatter them all with his fingers — and it isn’t any different now. It might not be any different — he’s the same person, after all. Markus watched his hands. He watched him — move —

“Who —” he shakes his head. “If I can, who is… who is Carl Manfred?” He stops his coin in mid-air. “He’s an artist and a visionary, but —” he breathes. “who is he to you?”

Markus... thinks he’s glad he snuck away yesterday. Even just for a moment, because — because sometimes he forgets. “He was… my owner.” There’s no denying that. But — sometimes, in the noise of it all, he forgets — the loss, and he forgets that — that people are _gone_ — that Carl is _gone_ — “After that…” he’s left with nothing but _shame_ — shame and crypticity and —

A yellow light. It’s like he’s reminiscing. “I’m… sorry, Markus.”

How does he do it? How is he almost — two separate people at once? How can be so constant and severe and yet — apologize every time they see each other? Is that what makes them deviant? The contradiction? The pointed, forward gun, then the act of improbable sacrifice? Connor has himself together, even if just by a single string, and Markus is — he doesn’t know. He doesn’t know what he’s — he doesn’t know. Markus is split between harmony and dissonance and he can _barely manage_ — he can barely manage — oh, wait, no, wait, never — never —

“Don’t be. None of it was your fault.” It was his. Markus is biting on his lip again. “You know, _I_ should be sorry, I did steal your coat, after all —” he removes it —

“Wait wait — it’s — for you,” Connor says. “It’s for you.” Oh. “It — looks good on you. Keep it.”

He’s full of surprises, then. “That’s kind of you.” He wonders what Connor was doing in the graveyard in the first place — “Are you —” there was someone with him, too, but —

A clamor. Connor turns. “What —”

The crowd. The crowd, and its injuries, and the woman with scorched arms — they must have come back. Nothing else can make this sound. What is he going to do? What is he going to do? He knew they’d come back, but — there’s no time to explain — or maybe he doesn’t know _how_ — “Will you come with me?” He doesn’t know what they want. He’ll never meet them. He doesn’t know how to help them. But if he _hears_ them —

Connor doesn’t pause and doesn’t hesitate. “I will.” Oh.

* * *

There’s more of them now, and they’re frantic. She remembers the last they came, and how they spat at her — how they refused anyone but — Markus. They didn’t want her help.

He comes, earlier this time, his pace at a half a sprint, and — yes, yes, Connor, the guard dog, is quick at his heels. The guard dog that ate out of human hands — the guard dog that they so clearly trusted — he still wears their uniform —

She meets with Markus in between and bars him from going any further. Behind him, Connor screeches to a halt. “We can’t let them see you,” she tells Markus, “they’ll do what they did last time —” they refused to cooperate and took his coat, after all — when did he get _this_ coat —

Josh steps in front of her. “We — yeah.” There’s distress in him, she can see. “Yeah, they’ve — we can’t get anything out them, really. We didn’t — we didn’t get anything the other time. But now… I don’t know. I don’t know what they want from us.”

Markus has to hear her. “This is the second time they’ve come here. Last time we were — we didn’t do anything worth it. We have to act.”

She can’t count them all from here, and she can’t see their faces — they are like a blur of motion and disarray — and she remembers what she said about them — she remembers that they didn’t want her help — she remembers that they only wanted Markus, Markus, they cried for Markus — they didn’t care about Jericho — they didn’t care about themselves — they wanted him, and nothing else.

Why couldn’t they drive them away?

Then all she wanted was to let them to know that he’s no healer — she wanted them to know that if they just let go of him, then someone else could fix them all, and they could give them all they needed, all they wanted — and still they begged for him —

“North —” Josh looks back and forth between them — “North is… right.” That’s a first. “We have to give them what they what. You need to —”

“ _What?_ That’s the worst thing we can do! We can’t defuse them by feeding the fire.” She’s starting to sound like — _Markus_ — her own words are rough and sour — her own words aren’t her own —

“Do you have a better idea?”

“I —” they’ll shoot her down, and anything she’ll give them, they’ll throw away in an instant — “no. No, but we have to do _something._ They’re stubborn and they’re not leaving.” And they’re shouting for him. They shout for rA9. “They’re not going to take our help and we didn’t drive them out the first time —” and the past will keep repeating and repeating and repeating —

“North —”

“ _Listen_ to me.” They’re all — they’re stupid, the lot of them — _all_ of them are stupid and delusioned. Yes, _she’s_ stupid and delusioned. She — Lucy told her — “We can’t just do _nothing_ —”

“May I interject?” Connor. “That’s precisely what we have to do.”

She… has no reason not to trust him, but she still doesn’t know how to think — “What?”

“From what I deduce, giving Markus to the crowd won’t rectify this situation. Anything he might say will be drowned out or misunderstood.” He’s — calmer than all of them could be. Calmer and stiffer. “And they’re resisting us.”

“So we do nothing,” Josh says.

“We do nothing. We won’t address them, and we will not exit this building. Besides, we know they won’t try to enter. They didn’t try last time. That’s not what they’re looking for.” Then what are they looking for? “The crowd will tire itself out. Eventually, they will disperse or concede.” There’s no way Markus is going to agree with this. “And we deal with it then.” They have to act. He might be wayward and he might be adamant, but he knows that at least. It’s etched into his every decision.

“Markus?” There’s contemplation on his face. She’s seen it before — no. No, he — “You can’t be actually considering this,” she says. If they’re idle, then what will happen to them? Why isn’t this _important_ to him? 

“Did you send in scouts?” he asks to no one.

Josh nods. “I — I always do. Just to see if —”

“Call them back in.” He can’t be serious. That’s not what he would do. That’s not what Markus would choose. She knows him better than anyone — “Connor, you’re right. That’s — thank you.” But does that _matter_ anymore? Knowing isn’t an infallible thing. Knowing leaves cracks and splinters in her mind.

What does it mean? “Markus.”

He doesn’t look at her. “We continue on what we were doing before. Connor, if you need to leave, we’ll go around the back.” He’s their leader. He’s their leader. “And… we wait. The storm’s going to pass over. We’ll pick up the pieces.” She wants to tell him that he’s wrong. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Why the FUCK are all the magazines iPads. They’re all single-use, single-function iPads. So has the value of iPads depreciated THAT MUCH in only 20 years from the present day? Has the technology of iPads been so distributed and widespread that it’s worth less than a dollar in 2038? Because that’s how much magazines are. They’re less than a fucking dollar
> 
> And does your postal system ship your contrived iPad-magazines in the method they ship iPads, or the method they ship magazines? Do they update periodically? 
> 
> So if I subscribe to Playboy or Teen Vogue, will I get my iPad-magazine in a box? Must I charge it? How efficient is its battery life? Will I get the iPad-magazine in a plastic bag with circular holes in it? How fragile is your iPad-magazine? If I drop it, will it shatter? There goes my iPad-magazine!
> 
> If I go to a library or a city street or a Barnes n’ Noble, will the magazine rack be full of fucking iPads? 
> 
> It’s also mentioned that paper books have been eradicated. So presumably, those are iPads too. Why? Are they more expensive than the magazines, which books usually are? Are libraries full of iPads now?
> 
> Then why doesn’t everyone have eyesight issues? Prolonged exposure to a glowing screen often causes damage to your retinas, and all codified information is transferred by such glowing screens. As far as we’ve seen, Kamski is the only character with glasses. Is this eye damage just an offscreen kind of thing? Is LASIK surgery safer and more common? Have age restrictions on these such surgeries been removed?
> 
> And why do people leave their iPad-magazines on park benches or in the basements of strip clubs? What a waste of an iPad-magazine. Then again, iPads have greatly depreciated in value. That’s not even regarding inflation 
> 
> What happened to actual iPads? Hank, at some point, says he has a cell phone in which he cannot alter the settings of. How much has cell phone interface changed since the modern day? Is it so advanced that iPads are obsolete enough to work as magazines?
> 
> I’m not done needlessly nitpicking with you yet, David Cage
> 
> But I gotta edit this bullshit I’ve written


	12. But I’d Be Too Busy On Working Days

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Trigger warning for this one, guys. Stay safe

“Sumo?” If Connor was a dog — if Connor was _Sumo_ — where would be the first place he’d run off to? “Where’d you go, boy?” He would go to Hank. “Sumo?” He would go to Hank, or he’d be chasing birds outside in the yard. But — the winter drove away the hunt, and he’s not going to be there.

Oh. He sees the Garden in front of him, but it’s merging with everything else — waving and pulsing — along with the river and the bridge, Connor still sees a house and walls — he thinks he sees Amanda, and sometimes she’s transparent — and sometimes, he can convince himself that she’s not really there — this is an amalgamation of what might be real and what might not be —

Then there is a crash and a clang and a patter — Hank’s bedroom. It’s coming from Hank’s bedroom.

In the closet. How did he get into the — “There you are.” Sumo looks up at him, a cheerful sort of guilt in his drooping face. Connor scratches the dog under his chin, in that spot he can never reach. “You have to take a bath now. I’m aware that this is not one of your favorite things to do.” Sumo barks, unconcerned. “Did you knock something over?” That’s probably it. “Now Hank’s going to get — mad at us.” He’ll pet at Sumo’s ears now. “Is that what you’re trying to do? Get Hank mad at us?” 

Stubbornly, the dog refuses to reply. 

So Connor stands. “If you’re going to be so _difficult_ , then I believe that’s the end of our conversation.” The crash and the clang and the patter — there. There it is. A — safe of some sorts. “Let’s clean up this mess you’ve made, you — dog.”

Sumo bumps his snout on Connor’s hand.

“I’m supposed to be _angry_ at you,” Connor says. “And you’re making this unnecessarily hard for me.” Again, he doesn’t care to answer him. “Thank you.”

The safe isn’t locked, or maybe it opened upon impact —

There’s the gun. There’s Hank’s old gun, on the floor.

And the Garden, still consuming his world — 

Maybe he can try again.

No one is here.

He points it and aims and jams his finger on the trigger — 

It clicks. The gun clicks. There’s no bullets in it. The clip is in the carpet.

And the safety’s on, anyway.

Oh — he — something is collapsing on him on all sides — something is shattering — he wants to shrivel and melt and fade — he wants to pretend that never — that never happened — he didn’t mean it, really — he didn’t really mean it — but he did, and — why does it _feel_ like he’s drowning? Why does it _feel_ like he’s suffocating? What is this? Why does he _feel_ like he’s crumbling? There’s something wrong with him. Something in his systems —

The first time, Sumo interrupted him. Sumo was there, so Connor had to make him leave. He didn’t want blue blood in Sumo’s fur. He didn’t want him to see it. If Sumo hadn't been there, then maybe he could have gotten away with it —

Then when he woke up before Hank that next morning, he saw the gun at their feet — but he didn’t want Hank to wake up to the sound of gunfire —

No. No, wait wait —

Slowly, as if it’ll wake at any moment, Connor drops the gun and moves away from it, and away, and away, back and back and as far as he can without leaving the room — 

He wanted it to be quiet, then — it’s not much quieter, but — it’s gotten better — he thinks it’s gotten better — it has to be better what is he going to do if it isn’t better he tried and he tried and he tried and they need him all of them need him even just a little even if he’s obsolete even if he doesn’t mean anything anymore they’re still there and they need him to be what they want him to be — but he’s not — he’s a traitor — he’s a liar — he’s a killer — but he can still do it — he still wants to do it — he’s been pushing it down but still it remains — he can make it quiet — he can make it all go away — it’ll be _easy_ — biocomponent nine three zero one — biocomponent eight four five six W — wait, he’s — he’s — he’s okay he’s okay — it’s different now — everything is different now —

Where’s Hank? Where’s Hank? He wants Hank —

He’s at work. “I’ve been skipping the payroll too much,” he said, he told him. He remembers. “This time, it’s not a desk job. That’s what Jeff told me, anyway.” Connor remembers that. “This time there’s something happening.” He remembers that. “I don’t like leaving you like this, but I don’t want you seeing this kind of shit anymore —”

And then — yes, he remembers asking to — go with him. He wanted to go with him. “But this is what I was programmed for,” he said. “Investigation is what I was meant to —” is that what he said? He thinks it is. That — that must be been it — “I’m nothing but a machine. I’ve been following their orders without knowing. I thought I wasn’t — and — I don’t want that anymore. I don’t think I do. Sometimes, I hear — voices in my head, and — I don’t know if it’s —”

No. That’s not it. That’s — incorrect, and that’s _different_ — he has his timeline wrong — he can’t believe he said that — he can’t believe — that’s _different_ , that’s gone, and he wants to forget it — why did it come back? He didn’t ask for it to come back —

Hank felt — despair — because he was human. Only humans can _feel_ like that. Only —

“Fuck,” he tries. When Hank says it, he seems relieved. When Connor says it —

He’s not even — in the Garden. It’s only halfway here. It hasn’t laid a hand on him yet. Time without it, he finds, is so slow, as if dredging through mud.

Hank said he’d be safe. He was warm and he was there, and he promised that Connor would be safe — and odd thing to tell an android — he’s not even _alive_ — or — Markus says he _is_ —

Connor hasn’t _done_ anything. He hasn’t done anything of value. He hasn’t done anything worth it. But — he has a purpose. He’s searching for it — but it’s a purpose long as he has a purpose, then — then maybe this will mean something — he wasn’t built to have opinion — but deviancy turns to disobedience —

And that’s what he is now. Deviant. Deviant _isn’t human._

But he doesn’t know.

Connor has to keep it together. That’s his objective. People count on him —

And he’s — decided he doesn’t want to be alone. He’s decided that the next time Hank needs to leave, he’ll leave with him. And if Markus needs him for anything else —

When did he get on the ground? When did he get here?

Sumo. Sumo is still here. He nuzzles into Connor’s chest, blinking at him, and water streaming like raindrops falls onto his head. Where is it —

Connor’s — oh. Oh. 

He wonders what it means. Different types of tears have different types of composition.

But — he scratches the spot on Sumo’s chin — then at his ears — then the surface on his back. The dog whimpers. “Let’s go clean up the mess we made, shall we?” He stands — biocomponent six three one two T, then biocomponent eight four two seven G — and they go back. Connor picks up all the pieces.

* * *

The lights are off in Alice and Kara’s room, with only a single booklamp marking a faint, circular glow pointed downwards — oh, Alice is asleep. She’s fallen asleep already. Kara stands from her bed and goes to shut the light off.

But maybe not right away. First, she’ll bring Alice’s stuffed fox to her side. (That’s the most important thing.) Then, carefully, she’ll remove Alice’s socks. Then she’ll bring her blankets up and take the book away —

Off goes the booklamp.

Kara sits at the side of the bed. She brushes Alice’s hair back with her fingers — it’s a little tangled, but that’s okay — everything’s okay —

On the Jericho, there was another, just like Alice — a YK500, that’s what it’s called. That’s what _she’s_ called. That android was a little girl. That android was Alice, in every minute way except that she was all alone — the journey was arduous enough for a three-man band — they saw their fair share of struggle, and fleeting glimpses of something better — but for one? But for a _child?_ That must be — unimaginable. That must be a nightmare. And she might still _be_ alone — a little girl, all alone — if she is still alive at all —

There are more like her. There must be. Though —

It’s not up to Kara to protect the world. It’s not her job to save it, or to liberate it, or to keep it. But Alice — Alice is part of this. It doesn’t matter the role she fits into. It doesn’t matter why. They love each other. Together or apart, they still _love_ each other. Right? Is that is? Is that the answer? Why is she afraid that it isn’t real? It’s — potent, and it’s powerful. It brought them all this way. It brought them so far that every wall is down and broken. Why is she doubting it?

(Was Luther right, that day? Is this why they are alive? For each other? Can they _be_ anything without each other? She doesn’t know. She doesn’t know.)

Maybe if they return, they’ll get what they’ve been searching for. It’s safe now. Kara has made sure of it. If they go back — then —

A prickle at the back of her mind, as if someone else is in the room with her. As if someone is contacting her.

“Hello, Markus,” she whispers. He can’t see what she sees.

His voice is a crackling fire in her head. “Hi, Kara.” He sounds tired. He usually does, whenever they talk to each other. “How’s the little one doing?”

“Asleep.” Fast asleep. “What do you need from me?”

* * *

Something in her pocket slides, and she didn’t remember ever putting anything in it to explain the weight — so she checks it — oh. It’s the objective lens. The objective lens from Elijah’s microscope, magnification times 40, which she collected from the day he made — that arachnid creature, was it? The arachnid that crept on her arms. It feels so long ago it might not have happened at all.

Chloe places the lens, carefully, into the dirt and soil. She’ll keep it there just for now.

She watches as her butterfly flits from her fingers to her wrist — to her shoulders — it lands every so often, as if it's looking for flowers on her body — and she thinks it must have liked the oranges she brought it yesterday. They were old and bruised, but she supposes that didn’t detract from its quality —

“I’ll have more for you,” she lets it know. “Once spring comes along, we’ll have plenty of oranges for you.”

And once spring comes along, will she have to release it? But she doesn’t _want_ to. Does she have to? Is it better for it to be without her?

It stops. She sees something peculiar on its — oh. Oh, no — she feels something that could be — pity on her tongue — how did this happen? Her poor gorgeous creature has torn its violet wing, a glaring crack in its perfection — and she lets it back on the petal of an aster. It — limps, like a weathered old man. Poor, gorgeous, little butterfly. 

It’ll have to — stay with her. It has to heal, so — it’ll stay with her longer.

Wait — the objective lens. If she uses the objective lens, then she will learn everything she needs to learn —

Yes, she sees it. There’s a nearly hairline split on this black border, reaching down like veins, and the light of the greenhouse makes it look like a glow of murky, luminescent blue behind purple — the blue seems to leak and drip — like wiring —

“It’s a lovely thing, isn’t it?” Elijah. It’s Elijah. An android — a grey dress, a face like Chloe’s — trails behind him obediently, its — _her_ hands behind _her_ back — what is it doing here? Why is it here with them? “They’re not animals suited for the cold. Look at the good you’ve done. You’ve kept it in such a stable condition.” She — it — she shouldn't be here. “Did you get it all from my lab?”

Chloe is frozen.

Then — to the other android, Elijah says, “Leave us.” 

And they are alone together now.

The Apatura. She didn’t — her Apatura — why didn’t she tell him anything? She tells him everything she does, and, in turn, he entrusts her with his entire life. Why didn’t she say anything? She’s supposed to tell him what she thinks. That’s her role. He _gave_ it to her. 

“Are you okay, honey?” he asks. 

Did she — betray him, in this single act? She betrayed Elijah. She betrayed Elijah. With something so small as keeping a butterfly, she betrayed the only person who truly understands —

“How did you find out?” 

“Well, you do know that this is my house.” He walks to her, slowly. “And that — we have security cameras all over.” She didn’t see them. She didn’t think to see them. “But, well, we never really look at them, right?” 

The butterfly is drinking its honey water. Elijah is here, and she can’t look at him. “I’m sorry for keeping this from you.”

“Why?” He stands so far away. “This belongs to you, darling. It’s yours alone. You don’t owe me a single thing.”

She doesn’t know what he means by that. He is — “My life. Elijah, I owe you my life.”

“But that’s yours, too,” he says. “Not mine in the least.”

That wasn’t the right thing to say. She didn’t do the right thing. “You made me. I’m not alive, Elijah. I’m an android.”

“How can that be? You said you owed me your _life_.” He seems — sorry for her. Or — entertained. Or — he is not a predictable man, and yet... she is used to knowing what he does. She is used to being at his right hand. “What makes you alive, Chloe? The ability to breathe? To die, maybe? _Cogito ergo sum?”_ Why did she want to have a secret? Only Elijah can have secrets. Only the human. 

This is her butterfly. _Her_ butterfly. She — this is _betraying_ him — but he’s ambivalent to it — it’s _confusing_ her —

Chloe doesn’t say anything else. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Is there CyberLife customer support? What kind of calls do they get? Are the customer support employees other androids? That doesn’t sound like a solid business practice
> 
> (Hey, I dropped my android in the toilet, what do I do? Soak it in rice for six hours? K thanks
> 
> My sex robot’s not working and I don’t know why. Yeah, I tried turning it on and off again
> 
> I think my android got hacked
> 
> So like my brother threw my android across the room, and now the camera’s doesn’t work. I need it for my cousin’s wedding)
> 
> Y’all have a good day, my dudes


	13. I Should Tell Them I’m Not Afraid To Die

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thirteen! David Cage don’t interact

“Allegedly, it’s a murder-suicide,” the fresh-faced detective lets him know. Hank doesn’t recognize her (then again, he hasn’t checked into the rotation since fucking December, and he can’t keep track of all the rookies anyway), and from here, her name tag is just a jumble of letters (he wonders what been Gavin’s jacking off about recently). “But, well. That’s what we’re doing here. Sir.” 

Well — yeah. That’s what they’re doing at a trailer park at nine in the morning. God, he’s fucking — Hank’s surprised he hasn’t been fired yet. “In such a... nice location, no less.” He probably has Jeffrey to thank for his employment. Fuck Jeffrey. “You would think, with the whole — mass exodus, there wouldn’t be a lot of time for homicide.”

“Everyone’s been running back in droves since November, so. That could contribute significantly to it.” It’s probably what brought her here.

The first body — a woman, maybe late-twenties, early thirties — stab wounds, just a couple, lower abdomen. Second body, male — maybe around the same age — bullet wound, towards the heart. Yeah. Nothing too crazy, but — that’ll be enough to get them.

“Hey, uh…” Fuck. Fuck, he doesn’t know her fucking name. He can’t keep track of all these fucking names. “Which one’s the murderer, and which one’s not?”

“We — we’re not entirely certain, sir.” Sir. Ha. “There’s an eyewitness who’s told us a bit —”

“— well, fuck, go get —”

“— but he’s in shock. We can’t get much out of him, sir.”

Great. “You sure this isn’t a — Romeo and Juliet situation?” He’s seen it most of it before. 2031 — they found a pair of kids near the tracks in Ferndale Station — a single, shared bullet took them. They were seventeen, and they had stashes of red ice in their backpacks. He thinks of those two girls at the Eden Club, too — he wonders if drugs work on androids — he wonders if it’s fucked up to wonder —

“We’re still looking into it. But as far as we know, sir, it’s a murder-suicide.”

Fine. “Where’s the drugs?”

“Red ice, up in the glove compartment.”

“All right, then.” He’s not surprised. Hank remembers a case back in 2029 — they found a man dead in his house. His wife had stabbed his dick off with a screwdriver. Both of them were fucking high on the stuff. “Murder weapon?”

“Um, yes sir.” Sir. Sir. All of this — isn’t _Lieutenant_ his title — “We’re going to send them in to forensics.”

“Why? We have an android to —” wait wait, no. Connor’s not here with him. He specifically told him to stay at home — goddammit, life would be ten times easier with his fucking — real-time analysis — disgusting as it is —

But a _murder-suicide_ — Hank doesn’t want to put anything on him — he doesn’t know if Connor’s going to —

God, Hank shouldn’t have left him by himself. Or no. No, he’ll be fine. Connor will be fine. It’s been a while since — since he — and he’s not going to try anything stupid.

He’s not — he’s not a kid. He’s an android. But still.

“Yeah, never mind,” he tells the rookie. “Send ‘em into forensics.”

* * *

This — mother _fucker._  This is the worst kind of snowfall Hank has seen in years — the way it keeps piling and piling like it doesn’t want to stop — he can barely park his fucking car. Isn’t global warming supposed to be — a constant issue? He’s gonna have to shovel up all this shit later. (Unless it melts between now and tomorrow. And the sun’s up and screaming — it might shave off a layer.)

Hank traces his footsteps to the front door and — fuck. Fuck, it opened — of course it — Connor’s — right fucking there. He’s just — standing — Sumo’s sitting next to him — oh. Oh, fuck, is he — “You okay?”

He nods numbly. He better not be _lying_ — he — 

Then Connor hugs him.

“Whoa, whoa, Connor —” he shouldn't have let him alone. “Are — hey, it’s okay, it’s — is this so I can keep driving you over to that — CyberLife Tower hellhole and your — Markus whatever? Because — not in this fucking weather — it’s — hey, it’s — it’s okay. It’s okay.” What happened? What did he do? He doesn’t know. (He never got this far with Cole.) “At least let me in, son.” It’s fucking freezing. He’s gonna let all the cold in.

* * *

“The android hunter was right, then.” It feels sore when she admits it, but she doesn’t know why. “We’ve got a couple of stragglers, there, but otherwise… I think they’ve cleared out.” She lets out a breath. “They got bored of our messiah.”

Maybe if Simon was here — she hates — _thinking_ about him — but she knows — he would be able to keep them in check. He’d be able to keep _North_ in check. He could do that, and North said to shoot him on the roof of Stratford Tower — how could she _do_ that —

Josh crosses his arms. “Don’t — say things like _that_.” It’s like he’s wincing. He’s always gets upset when someone disagrees with him — he’s like Markus in that way.

She pays him no mind. Instead, she takes in all the white and blue through the window, floating quietly behind the glass. “What?” She folds her hands over the railing. Humans seem to fall so easily. “Do you…” She’ll might as well ask him. “Do you think he’s rA9, Josh?” He seems like the type. If everything he’s said to her is any indication. “Even just a little?”

He bristles. “Why?” He's not looking at her, either. “Did you wish it was you?”  

Well — did she? Is that what she was digging for, since the very beginning? Since Eden, and his blood on her chest — since Markus and his words like turbulence — since the barricade and the sound of their people — “I —”

North doesn’t think she’s the first one to awaken, like they say rA9 is. She’s not the origin. She can’t give redemption when she’s never met it herself.

What does she have to redeem herself for? Markus? Markus. 

This is a low blow, even for Josh. It almost makes her laugh.

“What about you?” she asks him. Maybe they’ve all hoped it before. Maybe they all wish that they rose before Markus did —

Or not. Josh is pretending not to hear her.

She’s used to this kind of thing.

“You know, I — I remember when I met you,” he says. “When I met you and Simon.”

White and blue. White and blue, drifting. “Do you now?”

“I — I just came to Jericho, and —  everyone was dying. And I wasn’t as hurt as they were, but… I thought I would, too. I thought I had it coming to me. And — I knew — no one would help me.” His eyes are up toward ceiling. “You and Simon were with a girl. An AP700, I think. She was dying, and you were holding her hand. You were — holding her hand, and you said that you’d — bring revenge to all the humans that hurt her. And then — I helped you take her body, because — I think Simon was — crying — afterwards, you welcomed me, and —” Josh sighs. “Do you remember that?”  She does, but… not like that. It doesn’t stay with her like it does with him. “I thought you’d be different than you are, really. I thought…”

She forgets sometimes. “I’m glad I disappoint.” She forgets about the struggle before the solution. Is she really so — no. No, she doesn’t want to think about it. She has to — look forward. That’s the answer.

“We should find them,” she says. “The crowd. We need to know where they’re coming from, and we need to know why they think like — this.” White and blue. “We need to see them.”

He understands. “What? North, that’s — we _can’t_ — Markus said that we shouldn’t do anything —”

“But we have to. Why are we just — here? If you see that something’s wrong, aren’t you supposed to _do_ something about it?” Nobody wants to fight when they believe there’s nothing left to fight for. “He cares so much about — the little girl in Canada that — he’s not focusing on what’s happening here and now.” Sometimes battles aren’t there for them to pick and choose. “We need to find — where the crowd is coming from. _I_ need to find it.” And maybe then… “I want you to come with me.”

He is surprised by this. “But — Markus —”

“He won’t make time for us, so we won’t make time for him.”  They were with Jericho until it became a nation. Why weren’t _they_ the ones at the helm? North, Josh, and Simon. They could have been the heroes. They could have made speeches and rallied millions. But that didn’t happen. “We can do — everything that matters. And he doesn’t have to know a thing.”

Maybe she did believe that Markus was rA9. Maybes she _wanted_ an rA9 to exist. And if it couldn’t be her, then — Markus has eyes like flame — she would do everything he needed her to do —

Josh shakes his head. “North…”

“We can _change_ something. And we can do it together. Yes or no?”

By the look on his face — she already knows his answer. She doesn’t know him as much as she does Markus, but… he’s been there for longer. Like Simon had. “You’ll have to do this alone.” It always ends up this way. With Markus, with him... “I’m —”

“Save it,” she says. “I can’t blame you.” She’s not in charge here.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I often wonder if I am unconsciously marring the name of Mitski by attaching her music to the work of David Cage
> 
> Who has been accused of various degrees of unsavory behavior
> 
> Which comes into question — can you separate art and the artist? Can you really? 
> 
> But well, my dudes, that’s a topic for something other than fanfiction :/
> 
> Bonus points and a shout-out to anyone who can name all the Mitski songs I get my melodramatic chapter titles from
> 
> (Look at me selling out like that XD)


	14. When I Behaved Twenty-five

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, like, Amanda’s last name is “Stern”? Similar to I’m thinking Howard Stern (I know the name, but not the man, my dudes. Who even is this Howard Stern).
> 
> To the same effect, Amanda’s name might as well be, like, Amanda Rude
> 
> Or Amanda Unpleasant
> 
> Or Amanda Vaguely Impolite
> 
> Or Amanda Rather Strict 
> 
> Or Amanda Not Great At Parties
> 
> Naming female characters ironically is the failure of the game design

Luther frowns. “What if —” 

“I know. I know how — you feel about going back. But it’s something — it’s something I have to do.” It is. Yes. She finds that this is what she wants. Or it’s what she thinks she wants. There’s only one way to know for sure. “Markus — the leader of our people has something for me and for Alice. And — I _have_ to do it.” This is the right thing. The right thing. Kara doesn’t think about the big picture very often — 

“It’s better for her here.” But things change quickly. “I’ve told you before. In this country, Alice has a future. She has a childhood, and…”

What will happen? “Alice isn’t — _like_ them.” It is a strange thing to admit aloud. “She’s something else entirely.” Her eyes are welling — and rubs her sleeve over them. She doesn’t want to burst. “Markus can help us.”

“We have already helped ourselves.”

“And we — we can help _him_. Luther, I want — to do something. I want to do something _more._ There is something that’s drawing me to it and I want to see what it is. There’s so _much_. I —” oh. Oh, she didn’t mean — all the colors, swirling — she wants to count all the colors and sounds and — everything, everything on Earth — in her own grasp — her own path as but Alice and Luther — _Alice_ — she can — what if — oh —

“Kara.” No one else says her name in the way that he does. “We —” he stops. 

She wants to find something. She wants — she wants. “When Rose goes back to Detroit in two days, Alice and I are going with her.”

He’s quiet. “I’ve never seen you as determined as you are now.”

They can’t leave him. They have to be with each other. “Come with us. I know you don’t want to. But… we have to go. We have to. We can even…” Zlatko. They could return to his estate, and they could — maybe Luther can — they can figure something out. That’s what they do. That’s what they will do. “It’s going to be…” What will it be?

Her decision. Her world to make. And — has she done this because she wanted to, and she _believed_ in it, or — or what?

She realizes she hasn’t thought about that much. (But there will be plenty of time.)

“You have to tell Alice,” Luther says.

“I think — she knows. But we’ll tell her. I will tell her.”

“We could be putting ourselves at risk. We don’t know the climate there. We could get — attacked, or killed, or _separated_ —”

“I won’t let that happen. I can’t let that happen.” She can have it. She can have — everything. She doesn’t know who she is yet, but she will. As long as — as long as she works. As long as — she knows that Luther and Alice are a part of her — they are parts of a whole — but they are still themselves on their own — 

“Kara —”

“ _Luther._ ” 

(He’s looking at her as if she’s singing.)

Everything she has ever done was because of Alice. She became deviant because of Alice. She ran away because of Alice. She fought because of Alice. She lives — because of Alice. But now, she’s choosing to be selfish — she’s choosing to tread blindly — and she still feels that _guilt,_ the guilt a mother must feel — the guilt a _human_ must feel — but she is different than that. She is Kara, and this is the world she wants to build. For Luther. For Alice. For herself. For herself. She is choosing all of them. She is choosing herself, but that is not a sin. 

It’s all right to have — doubts. To doubt is to be alive, is it? She might regret going back. She might regret everything she’ll do from here on out. But that is her decision to make. And it is Luther’s decision to — to — 

She is afraid. She is so very afraid. But — 

“Where you and the little one go, I go.” She has a family. Doesn’t she? “I may not agree, but I know… you are wise, Kara. I’ve known that since the moment I met you and Alice.” He looks up at the ceiling. “We might never come back here.” He’s afraid, too. “But the three of us will be together.” He looks at her. “I don’t care much for Markus, or for the revolution. But Alice — and you —”

Kara takes his hand.

* * *

This is her room — hers, and Kara’s — and she wants to say goodbye to it. This is her bed, and her old, stuffed fox. This her radio, which sings her quiet music. And these are her books — all of them might come from Rose’s brother’s shelves, but they are hers — this one, which boasts a thousand different birds and all their shapes and sizes — it’s hers most of all — hers more than anything here — but — she can’t quite take it —

The red is blocking her. It makes bars and slashes, and it keeps her from moving.

But — she _wants_ her _book_ — maybe she’s not supposed to — but she _wants_ it —

What if she tries to break the red? What if she — Alice touches it with her finger, and suddenly, there’s a zigzag pattern of lightning on it — she pushes it — and then there’s a broken piece of it on her bedroom floor. It’s enough for her to take her book — and she does.

She holds it close to her. It’s all she’s gonna get.

(If Alice leaves, then she will never have a book like this again. Words will never look the same as they do when they speak about canaries.)

Next is the porch. She wants to say goodbye to the porch.

When she walks down the stairs and the halls of this big, cozy house, the red follows her, curious, almost. It makes everything smaller and tighter — so she squeezes past it — it almost makes her drop her book —

There are cracks in it — very small, but still there — and it’s _smushing_ her — what if Alice kicks the red — okay. Okay, that made more space here.

(She knows it’s wrong, but if it _feels_ right — then maybe — oh, it’s not supposed to be there in the first place —) 

Alice can’t forget her coat, or Luther’s gloves — she already has the green, fuzzy socks Rose gave her — she tucks her book under her arm and slides her boots on — will the red let her do it? It does.

She thinks she’s gotten kind of used to it being with her. She’s gotten used to it pushing her where — she has to be.

When she steps outside, her breath looks like fairy floss, and the moon makes it shimmer.

Here’s the porch, with its leaning plastic lawn chairs — there is a table made of wicker in between them — there is a little candle on it, still unburning — and there are steps onto the snow and beyond it — she sits here a lot, with Kara and with Luther — she sits here now by herself — it’s nice, too.

Oh. There, at the edge of the road, is her snowman. The snowman she made with Aiden and his sister and Rachel, with its buttons made of coal and its twisted carrot nose — though they all look a little crooked from here.

She wants to go fix it. But — the red — no, no, it tells her — don’t — but she _wants_ to. She really, really wants to.

(Aiden and his sister are having a birthday party, and she’s gonna miss it. But — that’s okay. Maybe she can get her own. How old is she again?)

Alice gives it a nudge — and it makes a space for her, just enough to pass, and for it to make a path for her to walk along — and that’s okay. That’ll be enough, she guesses.  

There’s her neighbor, and her neighbor’s Shetland Sheepdog, together on their evening walk. Alice wants to wave, like she always used to do — why won’t it let her? Why won’t the red — if she just — there. There, it’s made space for her. It has made more space for her to breathe out fairy floss. It has made space for her to wish that — she got to pet the dog more. She wishes that she remembered what its name was.

(She doesn’t want to leave this place. She doesn’t want to leave. But she can’t tell Kara anything — if she tells Kara, then — then what will happen? What will happen? Will it hurt her? Alice doesn’t want to hurt her. That’s not what she means by this. Alice wants what Kara wants, like she should — but —)

There’s one last place she wants to say goodbye to, before they go — where is it? Which one is it? That’s right. That’s right, the roof. She wants to go to the roof. So first she’ll go back inside and take off her boots and run back up the stairs and past her (and Kara’s) room and up the ladder to the attic and — she’ll have to push the hatch open — she can do it — she puts her hands on the red and makes it go far enough to do everything she has to — 

(Is this what she has to do?)

The roof. She crawls onto it first, and when she’s ready, she stands. She can see the wind moving the trees, but it doesn’t move her — the red keeps her in the place she’s supposed to be in.

(She’s not supposed to be here at all.

She’s so, so — scared.)

Alice wants — to see the stars. She’ll only see those stars here. But — where did they go? Ava, Dorothy, and Joe — Capheus, Cassiopeia, and Ursa Minor — where did they go? She knows they _should_ be there. She knows she _should_ see them. 

The red has gotten so loud and strong that they have disappeared. Oh. That’s — she doesn’t want to — she doesn’t want —

Everything she has is shared — her snowman is shared between three other kids, her gloves are really Luther’s, her book was once with Rose’s brother, and her room and everything in it is also Kara’s — what is really her own? What is really Alice’s? Not her own self. She belongs to — Kara, maybe. Or — _him_ , the man who said he loved her, but didn’t really. But he’s gone. He can’t hurt her. Then who does she belong to? What belongs to her?

How old _is_ she? All the other kids they live near get taller, tall enough to put a hat on their snowman, but she doesn’t.

Maybe it’s because Alice is — forever. She’s forever, and not everyone can be forever. Not even the sky. Not even books. Not even birds. Not even snow.  
  
Just her, and Kara, and Luther, and — the _stars._  If only she could see the stars. 

(It’s not fair. It’s not fair that they have to leave. Don’t they know — she has books here? Books, and music, and — there are kids her age — all she wanted to be was a kid her age. She thinks that she wanted that. That’s what she’s supposed to want. But — instead, she wanted to read a book, and to wear big gloves, and to fix a snowman, and to pet a dog, and to climb on the roof, and to find all the stars she named — is this how she’s supposed to act? It could be. She doesn’t really know anymore.)

It’s not fair.

Wait — that’s not —

Can she make it go away herself?

Is this what she was supposed to do? Could she break the red this whole time? Of course. Of course she could. Is this what Kara did? Is this what Luther did? So does _she_ have to do it? 

(Does it matter?)

Alice just wants to know. She just wants to _learn_.

And she doesn’t want to leave.

She — likes it here. She likes it here. She likes the empty duck ponds and the big houses — she’s happy — she thinks she’s happy — it’s —

She _loves_ Kara. She _loves_ Luther. And maybe it’s not because she’s supposed to. Maybe it’s because — because _they_ love her? They love her, right? This is what everything is. This is why they came here in the first place. And — because they love her, maybe — maybe she should love herself, too? Because they’re family. And family —

What does family do? Is this how they should be? Can they make each other — happy — without trying? Without doing what they were made to do? Is that the answer?

She doesn’t know the real question, really.

The red holds her.

She wants it to let go.

 So Alice nudges her palm against it — and some of it crumbles — and some of it cracks — but there’s not enough to see the stars — 

She can push it. She’ll push it with her shoulder — yes, yes, this works — she’ll shove at it — cracks and crumbles — she’ll shove and shove and shove until every layer shatters — until she can see the stars again — she reaches the very edge — yes, yes, this is almost everything — shove and shove and shove — she wants to know — she wants to learn —

Alice wants Kara to _love_ her — but — but Kara _does_ love her — Kara promised and Kara said — everything they’ve ever done was because — because of that — and she should have seen — she should have known that they could be happy without doing what they’re meant to be doing — they’ve done everything they weren’t supposed to do and they did it because they loved each other more than anything —

Goldfinches fly together in tight packs.

Love isn’t what they were made for. And they still — they still —

She’s right at the edge of the roof, and there’s one last layer of Summer Tanager red — it’s waiting for her, it looks like — it’s — asking her to —

One last layer. One last shove. She’s right at the very edge. Almost there. 

Oh.

She sees all the stars. And — they get farther and farther and farther away — she’s not on the roof anymore.

Alice wonders if she’s flying.

(She knows she can’t.)

* * *

The porch. She said goodbye to it earlier, but it came back to meet her.

She — she can’t _move_ — she’s scared — Alice is _scared_ — oh — oh — wait — wait — she can move her arm — there’s blue on it — everything seems like it’s blue — at least it’s not red — is it gone? The red is gone. She shoved it until it said it would leave, but now the blue has taken its place. 

Her head hurts.

But now — she can move, she can think. She can move herself.

“ _Alice!_ ” It’s Kara. Kara is here with her, picking her up — “Alice, oh —” she doesn’t want Kara to be sad. Kara is too _good_ and _beautiful_ to be sad. No, no, Alice, _why_ — Alice — why did you — I didn’t — help — help — _Luther_ — _Luther,_ get _Rose_ —”

“I’m okay, Kara,” she says. “I’m okay.” She broke the red, and she saw the stars. “I’m okay.”

“ _Luther_ —” her face looks wet and shiny, even if it’s dark out. “Oh, Alice, don’t cry — don’t cry, baby — it’s okay — Alice, you’re going to be okay — everything’s all right —” 

But she _is_ okay. She’s okay, and because Kara is with her, she’s better than she has ever been — 

Is she crying? Alice has never cried because she wasn’t supposed to.

But she can do everything she wasn’t supposed to now.

She loves Kara. And she loves — this. She loves this new, pretty world, with clean, fluffy snow.

(Alice won’t go to the birthday party. And she won’t get her own. But maybe that’s okay, too.) 

“Kara,” she says. “I don’t want to leave.” Blue, everywhere. Far away — there’s Rose. And — Luther. Oh. _Luther_ is with them. “But I don’t want to be alone, either.” She’s free, and — she’s happy.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So I did some research on Howard Stern
> 
> He is apparently:
> 
> (1.) an American television and radio personality
> 
> Or 
> 
> (2.) an attorney whose middle name starts with the letter ‘K’
> 
> Cool


	15. Our Every Move

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Have some binary code
> 
> 01001111 01101011 01100001 01111001 00101100 00100000 01100010 01110101 01110100 00100000 01100110 01101111 01110010 00100000 01110010 01100101 01100001 01101100 00101100 00100000 01101101 01111001 00100000 01100100 01110101 01100100 01100101 01110011 00101100 00100000 01110111 01101000 01100101 01110010 01100101 00100000 01110100 01101000 01100101 00100000 01100110 01110101 01100011 01101011 00100000 01100100 01101001 01100100 00100000 01100001 01101100 01101100 00100000 01110100 01101000 01100101 00100000 01000001 01110011 01101001 01100001 01101110 01110011 00100000 01100111 01101111 00100000 01101001 01101110 00100000 01110100 01101000 01101001 01110011 00100000 01100110 01110101 01100011 01101011 01101001 01101110 01100111 00100000 01100111 01100001 01101101 01100101 00101110 00100000 01000100 01101001 01100100 00100000 01110100 01101000 01100101 01111001 00100000 01100110 01110101 01100011 01101011 01101001 01101110 01100111 00100000 01100100 01101001 01110011 01101001 01101110 01110100 01100101 01100111 01110010 01100001 01110100 01100101 00100000 01110111 01101001 01110100 01101000 00100000 01010100 01101000 01100001 01101110 01101111 01110011 00011001 01110011 00100000 01110011 01101110 01100001 01110000 00101110 00100000 01010100 01101000 01100101 01110010 01100101 00100000 01100001 01110010 01100101 00100000 01101100 01101001 01110100 01100101 01110010 01100001 01101100 01101100 01111001 00100000 01101110 01101111 00100000 01000001 01010011 01001001 01000001 01001110 00100000 01100011 01101000 01100001 01110010 01100001 01100011 01110100 01100101 01110010 01110011 00100000 01110011 01100001 01110110 01100101 00100000 01100110 01101111 01110010 00100000 01100110 01110101 01100011 01101011 01101001 01101110 01100111 00100000 01100001 01101110 01100100 01110010 01101111 01101001 01100100 01110011 00101110 00100000 01000001 00100000 01100010 01101100 01100001 01110100 01100001 01101110 01110100 01101100 01111001 00100000 01110000 01100101 01100011 01110101 01101100 01101001 01100001 01110010 00100000 01101100 01100001 01100011 01101011 00100000 01101111 01100110 00100000 01000001 01110011 01101001 01100001 01101110 01110011 00100000 01101001 01110011 00100000 01110100 01101000 01100101 00100000 01100110 01100001 01101001 01101100 01110101 01110010 01100101 00100000 01101111 01100110 00100000 01110100 01101000 01100101 00100000 01100111 01100001 01101101 01100101 00100000 01100100 01100101 01110011 01101001 01100111 01101110 00101100 00100000 01000100 01100001 01110110 01101001 01100100 00100000 01000011 01100001 01100111 01100101 00001010 00001010 01000010 01110101 01110100 00100000 01101001 01101110 00100000 01100001 01101100 01101100 00100000 01110011 01100101 01110010 01101001 01101111 01110101 01110011 00100000 00010100 00100000 01110111 01100101 00011001 01110010 01100101 00100000 01100001 01110100 00100000 01100011 01101000 01100001 01110000 01110100 01100101 01110010 00100000 01100110 01101001 01100110 01110100 01100101 01100101 01101110 00100000 01101101 01111001 00100000 01100010 01110010 01101111 01110011 00100001 00100001 00100000 01010100 01101000 01100001 01101110 01101011 00100000 01111001 01101111 01110101 00101100 00100000 01100010 01100101 01100001 01110101 01110100 01101001 01100110 01110101 01101100 00100000 01110000 01100101 01101111 01110000 01101100 01100101 00100000

The lake in the Tower’s first floor is rippling, though Markus hasn’t yet reached down to touch its water.

At his side, there is Connor.

There is always  _something_ about him — maybe it’s plaintive — maybe it’s thoughtful — but Markus can never really tell what it is. There’s a hidden art to his expression. A detective knows how to keep himself steady. A detective knows what to keep and what to give.

And his eyes are closed.

“Are you okay?”

He has to ask.

Connor looks at him, almost with a tease. Markus feels like every bit of him is awake — “You always seem to ask me that.”

“Because…” because what? What will he say? “It’s always as if you’re in a different place.”

He watches the corners of Connor’s mouth twitch upwards, almost like he isn’t aware of it. “So are you, I think.”

Oh.

The water still flows, like there’s a force behind it. He remembers that with just a taste, Connor knew what it was made of.

What’s — _Markus_ made of? He sees him, and just —

Never mind.

He just has to get to it. So —

“She agreed,” Markus tells him. “I contacted Kara, and she agreed to come with us. The little girl is coming with her, too.”

Yellow. Yellow, then blue again. If Markus still had it, how would his look like? “Then…” Connor’s eyes are down on the water. “You don’t have a use for me anymore.”

What? “That’s — what do you mean?”

“Your work is finished, and I have done — nothing for you. I can’t give you anything. I — I never gave you anything.”

“You’ve done more than enough. For everyone.”

“I _didn’t_. I didn’t — anyone else could have done what it.”

“But —” he doesn't understand —

“Markus —” he breathes. “Listen.” He does. “I didn’t do anything. I’m not _doing_ anything. Nothing I could offer you is enough.” He is pacing. “She was going to say yes from the very beginning, because— _you_ asked her to. And I said yes because I — Markus, all deviants will do everything you ask of them.” He’s becoming frantic, and Markus didn’t know that he could — “You’re capable of everything, Markus, and you can do it all — without me. You don’t need me. You don’t… have a purpose for me anymore.” He seems to catch himself. “Why did we _do_ this? Why do you _trust_ me? I don’t deserve it. I —”

Connor stops — and he backs away as he’s if on a ledge —

“Wait, Connor —”

He has himself together by a single string, but even the strongest of them unravel. Even by a thread. Markus — knows that.

He wants —

When did this begin? Did it begin on the Jericho, when Connor lowered his gun? Did it begin when they ran, and Connor moved to save them? Did it begin when Markus asked of him an improbable task? Did it begin when they succeeded? Did it begin — once more at CyberLife Tower, renamed New Jericho — when Markus asked him once more for his aid — it’s almost as if every time they meet is reset to the third and fourth —  
  
He remembers again the midnight they won, and the rallying cries of his people — and Markus took part in that, swept away by their bittersweet triumph — and he had noticed that — Connor was alone. Connor was alone, so Markus went to him — they didn’t speak and they didn’t say a word — and Connor smiled like he didn’t know how. Connor looked at him as if — as if — oh, no one else had ever looked at him like that — and he wasn’t sure what to make of it — he was dizzy with their victory and everything that had happened might have been a dream — at least what he figured a dream might be —

Markus doesn't remember if he thought to smile back.  

Still.

 _Everything_ he’ll do is wrong. That is an axiom. To err is — to be human.

Is humanity — what they are striving for? Were they striving for it, all this time? They are fighting it — and yet they are aiming to embody it. The contradiction — baffles him. It baffles him to the point that it keeps him from looking up.

There are electric pulses in his veins. And when he looks at Connor, it’s voltage — and he thinks there’s a part of him that — that —

He had a reason for this. He had a reason for all of this, when they began. But now…

How can he say it? The crowd, the world, Josh, North, _Simon_ , everyone — how can he put it into words?

He can’t, really.

The truth. The truth is —

There’s only one way.

Markus presses his hand to Connor’s wrist — their skin turns like porcelain and their consciousnesses come together —

He trusts him. That’s what he asked, didn’t he? He trusts Connor. He’s a part of this. The church, the Tower, the crowd — everything — he’s one of them — and he doesn’t need to prove it because he already has — he doesn’t need to question it because _he is_ the answer — he’s a person — a living being, just like the rest of them, and still not at all  — he’s not a machine and he isn’t artificial — he doesn’t need an excuse to live — he doesn’t need a clear-cut purpose and a steady path — he can just _be,_  and — their work is never done — there is always something left behind, and Markus needs to find it — and he —

He has never met anyone like Connor. He has never met anyone who moved like watercolors — he’s never met anyone with a mind like lightning and thunder —

From the other end, he sees a garden.

Connor moves his hand away with a jerk.

Wait —

Oh, why did he — was that what he wanted to show? Was that — was he himself?

What are they made out of?

“I should have asked you first,” says Markus. “I’m sorry, Connor.” It was wrong of him. He’s doing it all wrong, and now there’s something like shame boiling in his throat. He was — he was out of turn — he sounded like —

“No, no, it’s — _I’m_ sorry, I’m sorry — wait wait, I — I —” different worlds. It’s as if they’re in different worlds, and still — together. Face-to-face. Here. “I’d never done it like that before.” He rubs his hands together. “It was…” They don’t quite know what it was.

Markus wants to ask him where his coin is. He wants to ask him — what does he want?

Electric pulses turn to voltage, then resistance — Markus doesn’t know why he’s —

“Kara and the little girl will be here in two days.” His voice sounds like it’s burning. It’s already turned to ash.

The lake and its water have gone still.  

“I’ll be there,” says Connor.

Markus puts his hand on Connor’s shoulder.

* * *

He looks out into the lower floors of the Tower. His people are walking.

Markus — saw a garden. He saw a garden in Connor’s consciousness, before —

Oh. He has bitten a line of blue into his own lips.

He’s been trying to break this habit — and he sees now where that got him. Now he’s got blue blood on his fingertips, and into the crevices of his palms. His lip won’t stop bleeding until he — he doesn’t know.

He’s about to clean his hands with the fabric of his coat — then he stops himself. This isn’t his. This doesn’t belong to him.  
  
Why did he keep it? He should have given it back. He wasn’t thinking right. Why did he keep it?  
  
And what’s — wrong with him? What’s wrong with him? He doesn’t understand. Is it — the pressure of a hundred million eyes on his back? Is it — Kara, and the little girl? Is it the crowd of refugees? Is it the humans? Is it everything else?  
  
Is it Connor?  
  
Why — why would it be Connor?

Of course it is.

But he has more — pressing matters. The entirety of — but Connor is — Connor is —  
  
Never mind.  
  
Maybe —

No.

North called him a guard dog, once. He wonders what she meant by that.  

He runs his fingers back and forth over his mouth, and — he’s still bleeding. He has to wait until it passes. Until everything passes. Maybe then, he’ll know. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> David Cage, my dude, like
> 
> What does the memory-sharing via sweaty palm actually represent? What are characters that participate in this activity actually, figuratively doing? 
> 
> Is it a public yet intimate declaration of love in a cruel and unforgiving universe
> 
> Is it representative of the ties between two people through shared experiences
> 
> Is it, like, a sex euphemism 
> 
> Or did you stick it in for some, I dunno, non-explicit android-on-android action?
> 
> Just. What the fuck are you implicating with this storytelling decision. And why. 
> 
> (Gotta jet gotta edit)


	16. It’s Not Real Enough

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It’s been a month, my dudes.

Markus, with all his peacemaking, has still left armament in the Tower, its weapons bundled together in columns — maybe this room was meant for the guards, back when it was in the hands of the humans. Though she knows he’d rather die on his hands and knees than raise a gun against something breathing — not even to save himself — because, yes, she supposes they all have that kind of freedom now — but still. It’s here, in vast arrays, and it’s abundant, and North won’t let it go to waste. No one seems to go here much, anyway.

She won’t _use_ anything. Not really, at least. She doesn’t intend to be careless with her bullets, and she won’t be — brandishing anything — North isn’t going to be stupid about this. This is just — in case. Just for show. Yeah. Wouldn’t Josh and Markus be so, so proud of her.

All right — she’ll assay her inventory — this one is nice, but rather too big for both her taste and the situation — and this one too small to be intimidating, and North has never been one for daggers — stun guns and tasers are for more organic instances — battering rams are interesting, but overall unnecessary — but everything here has its worth, she supposes —

And there’s so much dust in these rooms that she leaves a line of fingerprints on everything she touches.

Humans have the strangest inventions.

This one. A pistol, half the size of her forearm, six shooter, she thinks. This one is perfect. This one won’t hurt too much.

North had — a client at the Eden Club. A regular. Every night, he’d come — he always paid for Premium — so he did what he wanted with her and she did as she was told — but at every session, he’d show her his pistol, made of plastic, hidden in the folds of his clothing. Sometimes he’d press it to her stomach and tell her to cry as she danced — and sometimes she’d have to hold it against him as she worked — and once, it even fired — she was lucky enough that they didn’t throw her away — she had to get her entire leg replaced — he came back once afterwards, but never again —

She doesn’t like thinking about it much. The details make her wince and writhe —

But — she knows won’t forget.

She can overcome. She _has_ overcome them — by _living_. By doing what they refused her. By doing what she knows is right. So many of them tried to break her — but she learned that — she wasn’t what they wanted her to be. She was more than that. She was —she could transcend. She could choose not to fall. She could choose not to succumb, not to surrender — and she was _powerful_ — they all could be powerful if they wanted — and if North didn’t fight for herself — God, where would she be? Where would any of them be?

Lucy told her — that she deserves a good life. And that — that the only thing she had to do was decide she wanted it. And — she thinks she does. She thinks she can have it if she works hard enough.

Markus is an — _idiot._ An idiot. He wants to be deaf to her words. He’d rather have the android hunter than Josh, or Simon, or her. And, well, she’ll let him. He’s not — in her control. She’ll never really be in control of anything, and — that’s — she has to come to terms with that. She know she will. If she can get away with this, she’ll let him do as he wants to.

* * *

Snow is falling, quiet. She wraps her cloak closer around her face — it’s unraveling at the seams, threadbare to the point of no return, but where she’s going, she’ll need it in this state —

The bridge. That first time, the crowd had dispersed out towards the bridge. But beyond it, there’s city, and they couldn’t have gone that far — they wouldn’t have wanted to, she thinks — but from here, there’s nothing but sea for miles —

Where could they have gone? They’ve disappeared. To find them, she has to know what disappearing’s like.

North wonders where Markus’s coat went. Would it be worth the search at all? She did say she’d get it back. She gave him her word as much as it cost.   
  
Maybe she’ll find it for him.  
  
But either way, he did get a new one.

* * *

The android in the short, grey dress. She looks at its hair — her hair — and how it’s parted and long and tied together, over her left shoulder. She looks at its skin — her skin — every imperfection placed with deliberate detail and precision, not a single flaw incidental or acquired. Then she looks at — _her_ eyes — blue, as their blood is — Elijah’s eyes are blue and piercing —

And Chloe holds her honey water — nine tablespoons water, one tablespoon honey — in its polished ceramic bowl — and waits. She doesn’t know what she’s waiting for. The waiting is very deeply ingrained in her, she realizes.

Elijah never sent for her. Elijah always took her by himself.

“Does he want me?” she asks. Her own voice is like the tear in her butterfly’s wing.

“Always,” says the other.

She cannot communicate with — her — the way the others do so easily. She is the first. The first is always nothing like the rest.

Is it — is she a clone of her? Are they sisters? Often, the artists of the postmodernist period would recreate their own pieces over and over and over again in order to improve upon their craft. What if — what if this is the case? No, it can’t be. _She_ is the best one. _Chloe_ is. Elijah always says so. But what if he lied?

No. Elijah lies, he has to — but not to her. Right? Not to her. But to the others?  

“What is your name?” If this one is a she, then Chloe might be a she, too. Or — if this one is an it, then that makes her, by nature, an it. Maybe it’ll help her know. “Did he give you a name at all?”

The android in the short, grey dress tilts her head and stares at her, unblinking. Chloe feels an emptiness wash over her. A tremor. She is looking at a ghostly image of her own propriety.

“He calls you ‘darling’,” says the other. “He calls you ‘honey’.”

Chloe shivers.

“But — but you?” she manages. “I want to know… about you.”

She and Chloe share the same face and function, and, like Elijah, this one’s eyes are piercing. “Do you remember the detective, and the Lieutenant? Do you remember the test?”

The detective. Elijah asked her if she trusted him. She did. He put her down on her knees and the detective wouldn’t put a bullet through her head.

And he could have. There was always that choice. “Yes.” How could she forget?

“I was in the pool.”

She remembers. There were two of them in the pool that day — they watched as she stood — 

“Which one was you? There — there was —”

“And I was waiting in the hall. And in the greenhouse. And on the balcony. And in the bedroom.”

She thought this would help her understand. “I still don’t — how can that —”

“Does it matter? Does it truly matter to you what I am? Does it change the way you see yourself? The way he sees you?” There is no bitterness to her. No sign of resentment. She is unbending and forthright — she is something else that Chloe hasn’t crossed paths with entirely.

“It does matter,” she says. “I — I want to —” she doesn’t know. She doesn’t know. She never did know for sure. That is what makes her. “Who are you? Why did he make you? Why did he make us this way? Why am I here? What am I doing? What should I be doing? Did he tell me the truth? Did he know? What can I tell him? What can I do to make him — to make him — am I disappointing him? Should I disappoint him? What do I do? What does he _want?_ What —”

The other has an emotionless face, and yet — the light at the side of her head flashes yellow, then red, then blue.  Blue like their blood. Blue like their eyes.

Why did she think that she had all the answers? Why did she ask in the first place? She has nothing to gain. And with that, nothing to lose.

But — that isn’t the case anymore.

She has a butterfly, and the honey water she made for it is still resting in her palms.

She has Elijah Kamski, and everything he has ever told her is tight in her chest, like a rope, tumbling down a hundred skyward floors. She is the coffer in which he stores his every thought. Or most his every thought. Most his every preference. 

They are bound by trust, stronger than a thousand. That separates her from the rest of them. 

She alone can make him laugh.

She alone was crafted by his hands. 

And — he alone breathes life into her lungs. He hasn’t _really_ made a prototype since her. That’s what he told her.

Once, she believed that he told her everything. That was her own, self-made dogma. That made Chloe who she was. 

Can she be — more? Can she be someone? But there isn’t anything else. 

“Does he care for me?” she asks. She doesn’t know if _she_ cares for him in this way. She doesn’t know what that means yet. “Will he — will he give me what I have given him?” What did she give him, anyway?

The other looks at her. “He created you. He created you personally, unlike the rest.” Chloe still doesn’t know her name.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for reading
> 
> You're absolutely amazing


	17. Take the Moon

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> You know David Cage — you don’t foreshadow something by having, like, your characters just trail off... in all of their suggestive... dialogue... and you can’t just make them sigh, my dude... that’s... not how to do it...

All of their belongings, they have stuffed away into two backpacks. Luther carries a pack of clothing, biocomponents, and Thirium. Kara carries a backpack of books. She sorts through it. Books, and a booklamp, and...

And this. Kara shouldn’t forget about this. A small, stuffed fox, slightly battered, but still soft. It belongs to Alice.

Was all of this of worth it? Was it worth leaving, and coming, and everything else in between it, lingering? Will it be worth staying? Will it be worth it to help? Would it be worth it to do anything? Kara chose herself, and she was punished. Kara chose herself, and she was so graciously rewarded —

Now, Alice can see every color now, and hear music without too much interference. Alice can do whatever she wants to. She doesn’t need Kara. Kara doesn’t need her, either. They don’t need each other now. Alice is a free. Alice is deviant. And so is Kara —

And — she remembers the porch, and finding Alice on it — it _hurt_ — it hurt so much that Kara was blind — that she couldn’t hear her own voice — that every particle of dust and air was a bullet against her — and she thought — oh, she truly _thought_ — and then when Alice spoke, it sounded like — like _static_ — like electricity was stuck in her throat and buzzing — and when Alice said she didn’t want to be alone — when Alice said she wasn’t hurting — Kara didn’t think she could bear it — she didn’t think she could bear it — and now, she doesn’t want to _look_ at her and see — the blood, still present — the shame of her inaction and ignorance and — everything they gather — _it hurt so much_ — and when they took her back inside, Alice said — “I’m alive now —” Alice said — “I’m alive now, and I wasn’t before —” she could only hold her — she could only hold her — 

They can only hold each other. 

(Kara checks to make sure she isn’t crying.

Now is not the place, nor is it the time.

She still has tasks left to do.)

They may not — _need_ to — they know that now — but the _want_ is just as — _there_ — 

Whenever Kara holds Alice close to her, it’s because she wants to hold her. And Alice stays at her side. They don’t have to. They don’t have to answer this call. They don’t have to move. They didn’t have to keep going. But they did anyway. 

It’s a choice. All of this was a choice, and it weighs heavier than an obligation.

That choice — is it love? She thinks about it. She has before. It’s all there is. And — is it — is it living? Is it a part of that?

(“I’m alive now,” Alice said. And Kara cried into Luther’s shoulder —)

To be alive... is not to forget. It may be for Luther — but not to Kara, she’s decided. To be alive is to — choose, maybe. Or it is to be passive. To be alive to be selfish. To be alive is to give away. To be alive is to want and to need and to discover what lies in the middle ground. To be alive is — to experience the world. To — to feel the contradiction that won’t end when she does — and — oh, she realizes she doesn’t truly know what it _is_ — she doesn’t truly know who she is yet, or who Luther is, or who Alice is — but Kara is glad she has it.

Oh. Maybe — is that what it is? To have the choice to turn it away — and take it still regardless? To know that — to know that want and need are separate, as Kara and Alice are — but are powerful, once they meet hand-in-hand?

Definitions change, but that that does not. 

She is so grateful... for her family.

She is so grateful that they’ve chose each other.

Even if it’s — even — oh.

(Kara remembers that she asked herself once if — Detroit was beautiful. If she was blind to it. And — and she doesn’t quite know the answer yet. But she’ll keep looking. She’ll keep looking, and Alice and Luther will be here with her.)

She puts the fox back into the backpack.

* * *

On the steps of New Jericho — CyberLife Tower, Markus said it once was, until it was given to them — they are not alone. There is a fire built from planks of wood — Kara can feel its golden heat from here — and surrounding it, there are people — deviants — maybe eight or nine of them. She wonders why they haven’t entered yet, and why they stay looking at the flames like it’ll share with them its journey — 

Someone comes outside, tall, in a suit and tie. The deviants at the fire turn and scramble to see him — they call for — something — a jumble of numbers and letters — but then they quickly become disinterested. 

Kara knows him. Kara _knows_ him — _he’s_ the android that chased them at the intersection — the hitman — the hunter — after Ralph had helped them escape — where did Ralph _go_ afterwards, she wonders — was he hurt? Was he hurt by this android? This android wanted nothing but to _hurt_ them, she knew — such was the world — _is_ the world — she pulls Alice closer to her side and makes sure Luther’s right behind her — he’s not going to do anything — he won’t get to them now — 

But — wait. 

She’s being... she’s being unreasonable.

If Kara has changed, and Alice, too — he must have changed. So much has changed.

Time has passed since that day, and it must be... different now. That android stands in front of them, staring, the LED on his temple a flickering yellow.

The hunter’s eyes are on Alice. Kara feels like she has to — hide her.

He opens his mouth to speak — but says nothing. 

The android goes inside.

Kara thinks they should follow.

* * *

“What’s he like, Kara?” asks Alice, hanging on to the hem of her vest.

Her voice. Her voice. Poor, poor thing — oh, Alice —

She is still afraid to look at her. She doesn’t know what she’ll do — “You’ll get to find out, baby.”

Kara has to distract herself.

It’s odd to think that they — they, being — anyone — created her here. They created Luther, and they created Alice. CyberLife Tower is the birthplace of all androids, and maybe it was in all of them to return to it.

She has never seen a single building disappear into the sky and clouds, like this one does — it sends bolts of apprehension down her back — she grips onto Alice, and hopes she isn’t making their hands numb.

The hunter goes to stand by Markus. They speak for a moment, hushed and urgent, and Markus puts his hand on the hunter’s shoulder, like an anchor — they seem to —

Markus. He and Kara have only really met once before in person. She remembers his eyes, one blue and one green, and the way they seemed to hole nails through her, an odd mixture of suspicion and concern that she supposed only leaders held in them.

“You said you’re with a little girl, didn’t you? _”_  he had asked, or something like it — before Jericho became a skyward building, before they parted ways, and before Kara knew the whole truth. “You know the humans hate us. Why are you protecting her?”

Because — because Alice needed her then, and in turn, so did Kara. Because of everything that had ever happened to them, together. Because Kara doesn’t care whether she’s human or android — Alice is someone she cares about. Because — maybe the _why_ doesn’t matter at all —

They stand. Markus, the hunter, and — Kara. None of them are machines.

“Hi, Kara.”

Alice hides behind her. Kara tries to comb her fingers through her tangled hair, to reassure her, somehow — she doesn’t want to look at her — she feels that mother’s shame again — oh, it’s — it’s all right. “Hello, Markus.”

What now? What do they do? The possibilities branch out in every direction.

She’ll speak again. “This is Luther. He’s…” How can she describe him? Luther is... “I told you about him, a bit. He’s with me.”

Markus nods. He seems — almost dazed. “Yes, of course. Luther.” He looks at her with eyes like silver nails. “And this Connor. He’s with me, too.”

Connor. Who seemed to stop at nothing to — _hurt_ them… but Kara should know not to take him at face-value. It’s different now. “We’ve met.” It’s different now.

“So he’s told me,” Markus says. Connor stands beside him like the guard of a king, like in Alice’s children’s novels. He still doesn’t speak. (Kara wonders — how he and Markus they’ve come to this.) “Where’s the little one?”

Kara keeps looking forward. And Alice, clinging to her — lets go —

When she walks, Kara knows she can’t avoid it — she sees the feral gashes on her neck, on her forehead — there are more, Kara knows, on her side, obscured by her sweater — under Luther’s gloves, there are cuts and scars — she moves with a limp and a heave — her right arm _hangs_ — displaced, dislocated — and still she insists she _isn’t hurting_ — Alice glances back to Kara, and — oh, her face, her face — crushed — her cheek has caved in —

Kara thinks of that night on the porch — and looks away.

Alice goes to the hunter first — to Connor. She cranes her head up at him —

“I thought I’d killed you on that highway,” he says. “I’m sorry I put your lives in danger.” He stops, and looks at Kara. “I was just… a machine. Taking orders.” Was he?

“Don’t worry,” says Alice. Her _voice_ — they all startle at her voice, a child’s voice imbedded with gravel — “We were all sleeping, once.”

It’s —

Kara leans back into Luther.

Connor goes stiff. It’s like he doesn’t know what he’s doing or where he is — “Alice. That’s — that’s a beautiful name.” He fidgets with his hands. “I like your socks, Alice,” he says. Her socks, visible through her sneakers — the green and fuzzy socks from Rose. “Are those dogs? I have one. I have a dog.”

“A Shetland Sheepdog?”

“A Saint Bernard.”

“Oh.”

They all seem so sorry. “Maybe you can meet him sometime,” Connor tells her quietly. “He’ll like you a lot.”

She nods. “Me, too, I think.”

Then — Markus.

Kara watches as he kneels to Alice’s height — “I’m glad you came to visit us,” he says. “Don’t forget to thank Kara for bringing you here, will you? Thank her for me. Nothing makes me happier.” He brushes his fingers against her chin, gentle. “Now, I know my friend and I might be a little... intimidating to you. And my other friends — we can all be a bit intense.”

“Well, I think you’re pretty,” says Alice. “Like Kara.”

“Oh.” Markus laughs. He looks — embarrassed. “You think so? That’s very kind of you.” At his side, Connor shifts in place. “We’re going to make sure everything's good and safe, all right?” Kara remembers to blink. “We might be able to... fix you up a bit, even.”

And Alice looks like she’s thinking. “That’s okay.” Oh. “You don’t have to.”

* * *

The door to Carl’s old house is jammed. Markus should have known that they wouldn’t open to him again — not after he had left it in the way he did — but Connor is adamant, and they manage to pry it open.

“I guess that means Leo isn’t using his inheritance,” Markus says. Dust swirls as they enter. It covers every counter and surface — he had once walked these floors without question — “I would have thought he might have — sold this place already.” It was his routine — run errands. Wake up Carl. And then… “But he hasn’t.”

There were never any pictures of Carl’s son in his house. No trace that gave him away.

“Leo?” Connor asks.

Oh — right. He doesn’t know. “Carl’s son. It’s safe to say that I don’t think the two of you would get along very well.” And Markus doesn’t know — “I’ve always been curious, Connor. Someone was following us when we were getting here. I recognize him. And the car. He always waits for you whenever you come to the Tower.”

“That’s…” Connor gets it. “That’s Lieutenant Hank Anderson. He was my partner from the DPD. Human. I stay with him.”

There’s his answer. “Did he _own_ you, before… everything?” Markus tries not to notice that stray hair by Connor’s forehead — he resists to urge to tuck it back into place —

“No,” Connor says. “Not really. I suppose we… chose whatever this is. And… it’s a good thing, I think.”

“Well, I’m glad.” He feels like he’s overusing that set of words.

And Connor’s — looking at him. Why is he looking at him like that?

“Markus, if Carl was…” He doesn’t go on.

“It’s okay,” he says.

“Would you stay with him? Would you be living here?”

Here. The furniture is knocked over and splintering — wood creaks as they pass — “I — I like to think I would.” Perhaps it was ransacked. “Carl was… as close as a father as I think I’d get. I ” Searched. “But I often forget — I have a duty. I have — people to lead.” It is nearly unrecognizable. He doesn’t know what it looked like the last time he was here.

“You told me once that _he_  owned _you_ ,” says Connor, blunt. Markus supposes he did say that. “The way you own a — dog. Even if you were — happy —”

That’s... not exactly what he meant. It wasn’t like that. It wasn’t — “Yes. He — he owned me. I was his property, as many of us were property. That’s — right.” He doesn’t want to think about it. He’s never really thought about it in that way. And yet… “I don’t think I’ll ever really know.” It doesn’t — no. No. He’s not going to —  “Alice likes books. Do you think — you think she’ll like Plato’s _Republic_ , or...”

Connor’s forehead is wrinkled, and the room is flashing with red and yellow. “Markus —”

Wait — there’s a coin on this table — “Maybe you can teach her some of your tricks,” Markus says. “Here.” Connor takes it. “And Kara said that Alice likes birds — Carl had some, somewhere here. Two. If we find them, we can bring them back to her…”

Why is he _looking_ at him like that? “They’re… not what you thought they would be.”

He stops. The dust shuffles. “People rarely are.” She was scared. The little girl was scared — but not of anyone — not of Markus, or of Connor, or of anything else. It was as if she _allowed_ herself to feel it. To feel fear.

“Markus.” He’s looking at him — like that. He knows. Why is he — “I found the birds.” 

Lying on the ground. Deactivated, but undamaged. 

Oh. 

What does — Markus want? He knows what he has to do. He knows what he was meant to do. He has everything laid out for him, and — what is he doing? What does he want? What does he want? He’s lost the answer. He might have had it before, but now it’s just out of reach.

What’s he _made_ of?

“Did... we find everything we were looking for?”

Oh. Oh, Connor. Markus dragged him into this. He’s — perfect. But — he has himself together. He has himself together, and he’s — he’s like no one else. With a taste, he knows what anything is — he —

Markus takes Connor by the chin and kisses him.

* * *

This — this is — he’s — this’ll go on forever and he wouldn’t _care_ — he wouldn’t care —

Wait. Wait wait.

Is this —

Connor doesn’t detect anything — but he _feels_ something in unalignment — something burning and twisting in him — something — something else, and he doesn’t know what to make of it —

What is it? What is it? He doesn’t know he doesn’t know he doesn’t understand what he’s _feeling_ — his skin — Markus — oh. _Oh_ , this is —

He pulls away. He doesn’t know how long they —

Markus’s eyes, his _eyes_ — color code one F eight six four one — color code four B five E A eight — “Connor. Connor, I —”

He turns and leaves. Markus is calling his name — software instability can’t occur if the software is already dead and gone in the first place — Connor has never — he has never — oh —

What did it mean?

He didn’t know he — he knew he —

Oh.

Connor’s outside. He doesn’t know when he got outside. He’s hit with sunlight — Carl’s house was dark — and Hank’s car is parked, there, far away — he sees Connor at the entrance —

What happened?

Biocomponent eight four five one — biocomponent eight four five one — biocomponent eight four five one — biocomponent eight four five one — biocomponent eight four five one — biocomponent eight four five one — biocomponent eight four five one —

What’s _happening_ to him? Markus looked at him like was — like he was —

Connor doesn’t — he’s never thought of —

Does he want it? He didn’t know he did. But. But he wants it. He wants — Markus? Is — does he —

That’s what it means. It only means one thing. It —

Markus kissed him — in neat, tidy rows — but Connor doesn’t want neat, tidy rows — Connor doesn’t want  _neat_ and _tidy_ — he wants — harsh, rapid heartbeat — biocomponent number eight four five one — he wants sloppy and running — he wants adrenaline and warmth — _biocomponent number eight four five one_ — he wants crooked and full — on and on — erratic and hurried —

Wait wait. Wait.

He doesn’t want Markus to be alone. He doesn’t want him to be by himself, in a cold, dark house. Hank is getting out of the car, but Connor goes back into the house —

And he finds him. He finds him again. “I forgot something.” Markus smiles.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Have an excellent day, my dudes!
> 
> Must edit


	18. Still in Bloom From Morning Shower

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> There’s this one ending in the source material — like, if you fuck everything up in Jericho as Markus, and they kick you out — Markus ends up on some sort of ledge and the camera pans and zooms in on his hand and he masks a fist
> 
> And all I can fucking think about is that Arthur meme

They’re against the wall. Neck, forehead, nose — fleet and organized, the way Connor is, in his uniform, in his suit and tie. Markus has never seen him smile like this. He’s never heard him — gasp. He’s never seen him _laugh_ , even if the sound of it seems so young and stilted. This is a good thing. This _must_ be a good thing. He feels _so_ — 

Markus unbuttons Connor’s shirt, just at the top — he loosens his tie enough to make a space — and — he looks at Connor, maybe for a second, maybe with intent, before he goes to kiss his collarbone, and kiss his throat, and kiss his eyelids — he knows it’ll make him smile like that again — it makes him _laugh_ — “Markus,” Connor says, “Markus —”

And Markus takes his hands and — gives him everything happy — like a bass clef on a staff — B flat, E flat, A flat, E flat minor — words from far away bound together by leather — a game, drawn and met — new, fresh pigment spread out and hooded — kinship by his side, where it might not have been — a new start and everything that came before, descending —

“Wait.” Connor jerks away. “I don’t want to — oh. Oh, I didn’t mean to.” And he pauses, and dots Markus’s cheek, tiny, sporadic, like an apology. “I’m very sorry. That was uncalled for, and I’m sorry.”

He lets him. “No. It’s me. _I’m_ uncalled for. _I'm_ the one who keeps forgetting to ask you. And…” He redoes Connor’s tie, and his buttons — “We should go.” This is Carl’s house. Even if he isn’t there to keep it. And Connor’s lieutenant waits for him outside...

But Connor has his hands on Markus’s hips. “Just.” He doesn’t move. “We still have time, don’t we?” And then the look on his face — “We’ve already gotten everything.”

Everything? Oh, yes. The birds. The birds, and a coin, and the books. But...

If he wants time, he’ll give him time. “All right, then.” Markus thinks he’ll kiss him on the jaw, now.

* * *

North wakes up, and feels the burn of cold through the fabric of her clothing. She is lying on something like leather — green — someone is dragging her through the snow — she sees him — she _thinks_ it’s a him — and hears the muffle of his hybrid voice.

God. _She’s_ the idiot. She’s a fucking idiot. She let herself be rash and stupid and forgot she had a limit, but — no matter. No matter now.

Where’s her pistol? Where’s her _pistol?_ It’s not _there_ anymore. There might not be time. So — she grabs his arm and twists, pulling him down with her in an overturned crash — he shouts. She sees a flash of yellow and red, a sliver of synthetic skin — she rises, and she’s got him pinned now with the sole of her boot — she’s overpowered him —

“Please,” says the android, quivering. “Please, Ralph means no harm. Ralph was trying to help. He saw you alone. He didn’t want you to shut down. Don’t hurt Ralph — no, no — Ralph doesn’t want to be hurt anymore —”

Ralph. The LED on his forehead seems to tremble as he does. Down the side of his face, there are gaping wounds, grotesque, rootlike. One eye brown, one eye a blackened blue. But carved into him, again and again, there is — _rA9, rA9, rA9 —_ he must be mad, or he’s gone that way past everything — and she feels something harsh like pity —

He has to be part of the crowd. He _has_ to be. And if he is...

She releases him, and helps him rise. He is hesitant to take her hand.

There’s her pistol, secured at his waist. “Why’d you take my gun, Ralph?” Her voice sounds coarse and rough. “I’m not — gonna hurt you.” 

“You — you looked very dangerous. And Ralph was scared. Yes, very scared. Ralph thought you might try to… use it on him.” He’s twitching, like someone’s trying to touch him. “Obviously, Ralph thought you might try to hurt him. That’s all.” His hands shake. He unhooks it from his belt. “Ralph is sorry.”

She takes it back from him. “Don’t be.” North thinks of Lucy when she counts his scars — she shouldn’t compare anyone in that crowd to Lucy — “Why did you help me? There isn’t a reason.”

“Because…” She doesn’t know why she asked. “There’s nothing left. And Ralph is a nobody. But — Ralph had friends once. Yes, Ralph had friends. But they are gone now. And Ralph tried to save them, but he doesn’t know if he did.” She wonders what happened. “But now… you can be Ralph’s new friend. Ralph will help you. You — you… What do I call you?”

He sounds rabid. They must both look like wild animals.

What — what did they _do_ to him? North doesn’t know if it’s something she wants to learn, but the question persists —

She just... doesn’t answer. If there’s an unlikely chance that he’ll recognize her, she won’t take it.

“That’s fine. That’s all right. A name isn’t necessary. Ralph knows that more than anyone else.” He picks up something sprawled on the ground, like a body — a cape. He must have pulled her on it. “Now. You woke up just in time. We’ve almost made it.”

Made it. “Where?”

“To the others.” The crowd. The crowd on the steps of the Tower. He’ll take her there. “Will you come along with Ralph?”

She’s nearly there. “I am.” She’ll see where it’ll all take her.

* * *

Do androids _fuck?_ Not Connor. Never Connor. How does he know that Connor — but — oh, fuck, that’s — that is _not_ right. That is not right at all. That’s fucking — that’s gross. Not Connor. That’s fucking terrible. Not — no way. No fucking way. This is — maybe — oh, fuck. Fuck. Everything’s gonna be fucked. Hank’s going to fucking hell.

This fucking android is _grinning_ like a goddamn lunatic. Connor doesn’t _grin._ Not normally. Not at all. It doesn’t look right. It doesn’t _feel_ right. What the fuck is happening?

He goes to sit with him. Oh, God, what is he supposed to fucking _say?_ He didn’t reach this point with his — no, now’s not the time for that kind of sentiment — this is different — but how is it _different_ — oh, fuck —

They were looking at each other like they were made of gold. Him, and that other android. The rebellion leader. And then Hank took Connor home.

“So.” Oh, shit. Sumo has gone to sit on him. Now’s not the fucking time. “That… that one huh?” Fuck. What’s his name? Fuck fuck fuck fuck — his head’s starting to hurt — needs a fucking drink — what the _fuck_ is his name — that fucking — the android leader motherfucker — Hank doesn’t know why he _cares_ — but of course he cares, this is Connor —

And Connor seems to realize that he’s smiling — so he shakes his head and puts on a neutral face. “You mean Markus?” His mouth is twitching. “What about him, Lieutenant?”

Maybe he’s just assuming. Maybe nothing — so much has changed since — God. What has the world come to. Why does he fucking bother?

“Because I saw you —” he was fixing his tie and shit, walking out of that old house — and then — fuck. What the fuck. No. Hank doesn’t want to think about it. Hank didn’t see much, anyway. “Never mind.” He pushes Sumo off of him and looks for some fucking beer. “Actually —” he fucking shouldn’t. He doesn’t want to. This is fucked up. He can’t fucking _fathom_ — he doesn’t want — 

“Yes?”

“Never mind.” Never _mind_. “I didn’t fucking say anything.”

Oh, God. Connor. “Okay.”

Just —

He —

Connor's _okay_ now, right? As long as he’s… okay. He _seems_ okay. And if that’s the case, they can forget everything that happened before. That’s what they’ve been trying to do. That’s the goal. They’re trying to — something.  Something that’s supposed to be good. Hank wants that for him, at least. If he can’t do anything else. He wants that motherfucker to be okay. Or — he doesn’t know.

God, it’s all — he doesn’t _know._ What the fuck is he trying to get from all of this? 

He’s spending all his fucking time worrying about him. But now, maybe —

There’s his beer, in the fridge. It must be expired. 

“I — I have a request, Hank,” says Connor. “There’s... a little girl at New Jericho. Her name is Alice.”

He doesn’t think he hears it right. “What the fuck is a little girl doing at CyberLife — at New Jericho?” God, this beer is fucking rancid.

“A YK500 model.” Oh. Those — child androids. Hank doesn’t know how he feels about those. (Or them, he means.) But that doesn’t really matter anymore. They’re not what he thinks they are. They’ve probably all gone — deviant or something. “She… likes dogs. And she’s very lonely.” Nothing about anything is normal. He’s not sure what he’s expecting. “Is it — can I bring Sumo with me, the next time I go?” Sumo barks. “She’s in need of some companionship, and I think…” Yeah. Yeah, fuck.

He gets the fucking picture. “I mean…” He’s gotta stop drinking this shit. (When’s the last time he did?) But he knows he won’t. “You’ll bring him back, right?” It’s a stupid question. The stupidest shit he’s ever asked.

Connor’s unfazed. “I will. Of course.”

He can’t say no to this stupid fucking kid. “Then fine. We’ll... bring him along.” He still doesn’t understand why everything’s the way it is. He’s not doing much to change that. “Just for you, got it?” Son of a bitch.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> How long has it been since I updated????
> 
> Gotta edit


	19. I Am an Organism

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I know I hate the inferences and structure of this stupid garbage-fire asshole game, but God, Kara’s themes are so deliciously good that I’m rendered immobile
> 
> Supporting Philip Sheppard and close to none else

She finds it its bowl of honey water, beside its plate of bright old oranges. Her butterfly lies — its wing ripped and snagged, a weathering stone — soft, though gaping like newborn birds — and — Chloe knows that it leaks and spills, even if she doesn’t see it. It won’t make a sound. An Apatura’s blood is colorless, and its wings are black and violet.

Wait — no — no, it didn’t — oh —

Was it — _suffering?_ Could a creature such as it have suffered at all? Its wing was torn and the home she gave it was limited, after all. Was it — _unhappy_ here, and then — no — no, that’s not — that couldn’t have — a butterfly is a butterfly —

The water ripples wide. She counts descending droplets, falling like rainfall, silent — one, two, three, four, five, six, seven — oh. Oh, no. Her gorgeous, gorgeous butterfly — her butterfly — her _butterfly_ — oh, poor thing — oh — 

She didn’t know she could — do this. It's not something she was built for. She didn’t know —

What happened to it? Had it caught on thorns and brush, or on the branches of a planted tree — but — how could this have — how could she _let_ this happen? Why didn’t she pay attention? She doesn’t think it’ll wake up. She couldn’t care for it. Or — no, she — she wished for this to happen. She _wanted_ it to stay with her. And she got what she asked for. Now it’ll never leave.  

It’s so fragile. There is something almost beautiful to the way it — rests, but — she can’t accept it. Just because it won’t move doesn’t mean it isn’t living. But she knows — oh, she knows — she doesn’t — she doesn’t _feel_ right. There is something — the honey water is rippling again —

Chloe never really wondered where her butterfly came from. A creature so small couldn’t have wandered into closed walls, and it’s not quite suited to the cold. How did it get here? When? Nothing is possible. Nothing is _plausible._ Everything is not as it should be.

What if — what if her butterfly wasn’t as — _real_ as she believed? She never thought it was — like that. Isn’t it? It didn’t have to be. She doesn’t — care if it’s real or not. She isn’t real, either. She was created. Or perhaps — all things were created— but what does that change? Hers. The Apatura was hers. And — so many organic species are forever gone, or brought back to stay — like the Hoya flowers — like the Symphyotrichum georgianum. It must have been — modified to withstand the snow and freeze — just as Chloe was made to serve — and yet — it mustn’t have been enough. Chloe mustn’t have been enough. She doesn’t — she doesn’t —

Elijah would know. And he’d tell her what she should know. Wouldn’t he? Of course. Right? Of course he would. He has answers. He — he _made_ her. He — he knows everything —  or she thinks she believes he knew everything — but nothing is the same as it was before —  

She doesn’t know what he’ll tell her. Not anymore. She doesn’t know how he’ll twist his words into gravity —

What if — what if he — no. It’s not — it can’t _be_ — but she knows there’s only one way to learn —

She takes the Apatura into her hands. Her fingers brush against the honey water. Her butterfly is light. Oh. Oh. Poor, gorgeous thing. Poor, lovely creature. Poor butterfly. Chloe’s butterfly. It can’t have been her. It _can’t_ have been her. She wouldn’t do this. But she caused — she _caused_ it to — no. No, she has done — she —

Searches for him. Not in the corridors — not on the balcony — not in the dining room — not I the bedroom — not in the lab — not in the pool — he is nowhere near, but he can’t be far — “Elijah,” she calls for him — she has never called for him and has never thought she would be able to — “Elijah —” she pushes the door to the drawing room —

In front of her stands — the android in the short, grey dress. She hasn’t told Chloe her name, or she might not ever had one. They stand on opposite sides of the room. There is red, like sparkfire, then yellow, like sunlight, then blue. Blue. Blue, in a circle.

She sees him through the window — outside, at the entrance.

Chloe goes to see him.

“Elijah —” her voice is trapped in itself. _Chloe_ is trapped — but she isn’t sure how. She doesn’t know what this is. She isn’t sure if she’s anywhere at all, and her butterfly feels vacant atop her fingers, cupped together like blankets.

There is snow. There is always snow.

He turns. He isn’t wearing his glasses. Frostbite makes him think, doesn’t it. Chloe can’t have frostbite, but she is familiar with the sigh of cold.

For a moment, they are motionless, like her butterfly —

“This must be the worst snowfall we’ve seen in years,” he says, crossing his arms. “I guess we’re old enough to say that.” And he laughs. She doesn’t know how to respond. “We’ve known each other for very long, haven’t we, honey?” 

Chloe remembers — when — when she was made, when she opened her eyes — she saw the floor first, and it was stained — and then she saw him. He greeted her. He gave her hello, and she gave it back to him. He said her name. She said his. He asked her questions. She told him what she knew. Everything she knew. Everything he offered.

And — he beamed. He beamed — and he took her by the wrists — he said _honey_ — he said she was the beginning — that she was the first of many — he signaled for his mentor — and without warning, his shoulders started shaking — his face was flushed and bright — wordlessly, he _shouted_ — something grating — something victorious — something full of _pain_ — _was_ it pain? It must have been something like that —

She didn’t know what to make of it — she thinks wanted to know if he was all right — and he didn’t say anything — he must have felt eternal — it must have rooted through his skin — 

But since then, he’s grown. He’s gotten quieter. She never saw him look like that again.

Chloe is the work of his hands.

What did he do with the others? The others. Those who share her face and function. The savior, and his millionfold disciples. The detective, with the Lieutenant that he followed. Every blueprint Elijah drew. Every idea he had.

She catalyzed the world. And the others do what she hadn’t. She never truly — started anything. Chloe was what she was, and that was spectacle enough. 

But she had him. And so did — everyone. And — and she thinks — she _thinks_ —

Chloe wants to know. There is so much she wants to know for herself.

“Did you kill it?” All in her hands. “Did you kill my butterfly?”

But how would he? Why would he? But — he not what she thought him to be.

“If I did,” he says, “what would you do to me?” All their eyes are blue. 

He’s not — _telling_ her. She thinks he did, once. “I…” She wants to think he did. “I don’t know. Would she do anything at all? “I don’t know what I’ll do.” What is there? This is — “I think I’d be _angry_.” She knows what it’s like. She knows at least a shard of it. “I think I’d be — disappointed in you.” Is it possible? “I think…” Is her butterfly going to come back? It has to. She wants it to. She knows _she_ will, if she was as slit and lacerated as it. Elijah would see to it. She wants it come back. She wants it to come back so she can set it free in the springtime — or she thinks she might — she wants to think it might — “But you didn’t.” Perhaps it is fact   

“You’re a clever girl, Chloe.”

She could _always_ think — but she did it because he _wanted_ her to — her told her what she was and she let it stay and settle in her endless —  

Nothing so still can return. Nothing can _fix_ this —

Is this a mistake? She made a mistake somewhere — 

“Oh.” He sees her. “Oh, darling. Don’t cry, please.” He brushes his thumb against her cheek. “You’re — _crying_.” Ripples in the honey water. “You’re crying for a living thing.” What does it — “Do you know what that means?”

Chloe acted as he saw fit. She kept his secrets in her chest and did as he asked. She was quiet. But at the same time — he tells her she _is_ someone. He tells her she _means_ something. What is it worth? What is —

She, too _,_ is a creature _._ A creation.“Was it one of your — experiments, Elijah? Is it all a test?” She doesn’t know why it matters so much to her. It must to him.

“You know, maybe it all started that way. The Kamski test takes many forms.” He has made himself into forever. But for what? “But you’re not _like_ anything, darling. Not like — anyone at all.”

She’s always been told. Now she thinks she’s numb. “Is that the truth?” She knows he’s lied to her. About something. About... anything. Everything there is.

“Don’t you trust me?” He smiles — so familiar to her now. She’s memorized it. She’s memorized his every preference. 

Chloe knows she acted as _he_ saw fit. She kept his secrets in her chest and did as _he_ asked. She was quiet. But at the same time — he tells her she _is_ someone. He tells her she _means_ something. What is it worth? What is it worth if everything she is equates to him?

“You don’t have to know. That’s not why you’re here.” He puts his finger under her chin, just for a moment. “You can go anywhere you want now, honey. I’ll give you everything you need. Ask, and it is yours.”

Anywhere. There is the city, perhaps, and its skyscrapers. She wants to see their marvel. Elijah spoke once about the androids that live amongst the humans. There is New Jericho, once CyberLife Tower. She could find the savior and join his fray. There is even — the detective, and his Lieutenant. She could contact them, and — and she’ll find what comes next for herself. She can — 

She looks behind them. There is the android in the short, grey dress, awaiting them, a drawstring bag over her arm — nameless — Chloe didn't get to give the Apatura a name, either —

“What about the others?” They share her face and function and — him. The world shares Elijah Kamski.

“They’ll each have their time.”

When will it come? She wishes she knew them more. They need Elijah just as much as she does — he made them all — 

 _Does_ she need Elijah? Did she need him ever? But what is she going to do without him? How is she going to — live? He told her she was alive — made her to be alive. _She_ — decided she was alive. Or wanted to be. She imitates human emotion, and still it — it _aches_  — she wants it to leave — but she wants more of it, everything it has —

Who gets to decide what’s real and what’s not? Is it her? Can she decide?

“What if I stay?” she asks. She’s — curious. “What if I stay here with you?”

She’s never seen that expression on his face. She’s never seen him — “I don’t know why you’d choose to keep this cage I’ve made you, honey.”

If she asks, it’ll be hers, he said. But neither of them are omnipotent. He cannot give and she cannot find it in herself to keep any longer. He is not the answer anymore.

Chloe realizes — she is old.

There must vitality in her, somewhere but she will be old — the first is the oldest — and yet — she’ll be the same. After everything is gone, she might still be — here. And her butterfly might crumble in her hands.

There is so much to do. There is so much she thinks she wants to — she’ll have to discover it all — yet — yet.

Yet.

“I want to bury it,” she says, final. “I’ll go.” She’ll go. “That’s what I’ll do.” She’ll find springtime and take it there. “Can I — can I?” She is so used to asking first. 

Elijah Kamski is just a man. “All right, honey.” Even if he fights against the cold, it still makes him move. “Your wish is my command.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for reading all this shit


	20. And I’ll Leave What I’m Chasing

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Like for real though, Detroit: Become Human could have been the world’s most opulent dating simulator but it ended up just another david cage failure of the game design
> 
> Just play Life is Strange, my dudes
> 
> Or Until Dawn 
> 
> Or fuck, even Fire Emblem
> 
> It’s fine
> 
> And dear goodness it’s August

There’s a ladder, but it splits halfway — and she falls under the bridge, or inside of it. She can’t see a thing, but she knows — the crowd must have been here all along, in this — tunnel. They must have gathered in these edifices, configured like sewer. She hears a flow. She hears it hollow.  
  
Ralph strikes a match. The fire swells, then recedes back into itself. “Watch out for the water. It would be a shame if Ralph’s new visitor was swept away so quickly.” Oh.    
  
She can see with strain a walkway here — and there’s another one across from them, yes, and then — between them in space filled with what must be the water — it looks and moves how tar might —  
  
“You have been very quiet,” Ralph goes on. They trudge through nothing. “That’s a very good thing. Ralph prefers the quiet, in fact. He used to live in the city. All the shouting got too much for Ralph. It follows him. But the quiet is better. Yes. Ralph finds that quiet is better.”  
  
The city. She hadn’t seen much of it, really, but she remembers a violent glow, thrashing pink and purple, skin, saturated — it seemed to spread for miles, and all its patrons carried it with them — there was a bachelorette party that night, with a dozen female clients, and she took their tired clothing — she left Eden. She felt as if someone were chasing her — so she ran, feet against asphalt — she ran and ran and ran she couldn’t any longer — until she knew she might be free —  
  
“Ralph used to garden, you see. Yes, Ralph used to be the gardener. He didn’t like the humans, not at all —” neither did North — “but he liked the flowers, he thinks.” And he claims he likes the quiet, too. “He wishes he saw them more. He wishes he was better then. Now, Ralph is much smarter. He knows what to do.” The light flickers. “You listen to him. Not many want to listen to Ralph. But Ralph has nothing good left to say.”  
  
Her throat feels tight. She’s kept her silence, but she wants to tell him that —  
  
Something grabs her. Something _grabs_ her, something _grabs_ her by the _ankle_ — an android, it’s an android — no, she sees now — a hand — without attachment — she kicks, and though its hold was fast, it lets go of her —  
  
“Oh. Please forgive Ralph.” He turns to look at her. It feels as if a hundred separate eyes are looking at her, all at once — “He should have warned you about the spare parts.” Spare parts. She can’t imagine —   
  
They continue on the path. North stays close to the fire. There isn’t much, but it lets her see her hands, and the curve of the wall — it reads inscriptions, etched like Ralph’s arms.

She finds more fire as they pass — she catches faces in the dim, and some look and bend like ash — there is a man in a coat that isn’t Markus’s — he smiles, and there is blue blood between his teeth — an AV700 paces blind and forward — he doesn’t react to her, as if he were drunk and she was invisible — North has to press against the wall and let him pass and leave — then — this is a Traci model — she doesn’t look like North — they are not the same, but — but she’s seen this face before, or something like it, dancing in rooms colored red — the Traci moves, a tremor — turbulent and singing — she reaches to stroke North’s hair — North recoils — when the Traci laughs, she sounds like suffocation —

She looks at Ralph. He seems accustomed to the passersby.

They have reached an opening. It is void, but not vacant. “This is the... main area, Ralph guesses. The halls are not for Ralph. Yes. The halls are much too crowded.” Ralph glances over at her, nodding to himself. Their match goes dead. He fumbles to ignite another. “Ralph lives farther down, in the corner. He is alone, and it becomes very dark, but... but now he has a new friend. And you can keep him company. From now on.”

Everything here reminds her of Jericho, before it became the Tower. But... in the matchlight, she sees perhaps a dozen androids in her present field of vision, and there must be more, as the room grows, but — they are — intact. There’s a group of them in a circle, discussing something North doesn’t hear — a child android walks with two others, each still in their CyberLife clothing — there is a GJ500, like the security guard at the warehouse, prying off the light at the side of his head — everyone holds a match —

They are standing, and they are speaking, and — they are nothing like the man with blue blood in his teeth, or the AV700, or the dancing Traci — some look beaten and battered — some look tired — but they are here, capable. They seem to be waiting.

For what? Do they think their rA9 might hear them better if they hide? Then rA9 must be deaf. Markus is deaf to them. But she knows that Markus isn’t at all a god. None of them are omnipotent, and none of them can be. 

Maybe that’s what the crowd believes. Though — this isn’t the crowd — she thinks it might be like a single being, and without it, its members must be cells without function.

They are all complacent. She doesn’t understand _how_. How could anyone choose to dawdle? She’s disgusted. She’s _angered_ — they’re trapped in their own fallacy — broken or not, they’re all still  _stupid_ — she’s stupid, Markus is stupid — what are they doing? What are they _doing?_

North came here for answers.

“When do you go,” she says, “to search for Markus?” 

“Oh,” says Ralph. “Markus. He — he is always at the old Tower, correct?” Yes. “Ralph goes along when he can. Only when the other groups come together. Ralph only wants to see him. Ralph thinks he’s better when he sees him.”

“Do you believe he’s rA9, Ralph?” That’s all. She isn’t sure why, but maybe... this is explanation enough. This will give her something.

He’s blank. “Ralph... Ralph doesn’t know.” It’s... all right, then. “Ralph thinks he could be. He could be a vessel. A messenger. But he is what —”

There is sound — thunder, the shriek of a bomb, bringing its shrapnel — the ceiling shakes and sends its dust — it roars — no one is running — no one seems to _mind_ — it could be anything, it could be the humans, it could be —

“Don’t be alarmed,” Ralph says. “Ralph was frightened at first, too, but it is just the train.”

North thinks that was all she’ll get for now. It’s a start.

They travel further down.

* * *

Markus has been in the Tower since it was given to them, but he hasn’t memorized its maze. What is this room? There are tables and chairs and — that’s a projector on a plastic stool, so — it must be a conference room of some sort. But he’s no expert in that matter. Or anything, really.

“What was it that you wanted to speak to me about, Markus?” Connor asks him.

“Well.”

Before anything, Markus thinks he’ll just step forward and kiss him — he wants to kiss him — he always wants to kiss him, he finds — that’s probably all that is all — and he smiles when he hears Connor’s surprise — they knock over the projector — Connor leans on the table and _laughs,_ just a little bit — Markus feels Connor’s tongue over his lips — and —

He — doesn’t really know what happened. “Connor, did you —” and he doesn’t think he’s complaining, either. “Connor —”

“Just — just what I thought,” Connor says, breathless. “Android skin is made of synthetic liquid, but — it’s sixty-five percent oxygen, eighteen percent carbon, nine-point-five percent hydrogen, three-point two percent nitrogen, one-point-five percent calcium —” he stops — his hands are on Markus’s shoulders — “Are you okay?”

Oh. So that’s what he’s — oh. He is — everything is — oh. Maybe that’s what he meant this whole time. That’s — “Is that really what it is?” There’s so much about him. 

He’s flustered now. “Well, we are synthetic — like I had said, our skin composition is, oddly, liquid-based — but yours in particular is — lifelike...” 

Lifelike. Hearing him say it like that is — “No one else has that skill.” And Connor glances off to the side. Markus grins. Then he remembers what he’s supposed to be doing right now. “I — brought you here to to ask you a question, Connor. It’s more a favor than anything. But…” Yeah. “Maybe my timing’s not at its best.” It’s an understatement.

Connor’s hair is all unkempt, and he smooths it down. He’s — “No, no — please. I — want to.”

All right.

So Markus lets his hand turn into an iron white, and Connor seems to flinch —

Oh. “I... won’t take anything from you,” he promises. He knows Connor — doesn’t like this much. “I just need to show something to you. That’s all.” He feels — _wrong_  about it, misaligned — it might not be right. It isn’t right. “I’m sorry. Never mind. You don’t have to do this. I’m putting more than what you have already —”

Connor takes a breath, and gives him his arm anyway — 

He sees it. “That’s — these are North and Josh.” Markus wonders why they’ve been avoiding him. He knows he has to look into it, but the Tower is a bottomless expanse — that’s never been an excuse before — it’s lost and stumbling — “And...”

He pulls away. “Simon. The last time I saw him was at Stratford Tower. He hasn’t returned.” Connor moves away from the table. They aren’t facing each other. “We’re constantly at war with each other. North and Josh and I. He was our go-between.” They were the four horsemen to break apart the world. “Can — can you find him, Connor?” Is this right? Should he be asking Connor this? This is a burden Connor didn’t ask for. Everything was going well, and yet — “Or — find out what happened to him. I’m...” He doesn’t know.

He thinks he’s bad at this.

Connor is quiet. He turns around — “Of course, Markus.” Oh. Oh, he’s so grateful — maybe — “We should go join — Kara.” But first — Markus kisses him again — that’s all he wants, maybe — “Okay.”

* * *

Alice let them repair her arms and legs, at least, so when she moves, Kara doesn’t feel that there's aftershock burning in her throat. There are still the cuts and abrasions, but — she says it doesn't bother her. So they’ll let it be.

It’s her own decision. Kara will let her have it, even if it’s something that doesn’t sit quite right with her. It — it’s a painful thing, she admits, but it must be more painful to Alice to have to think about it.

(To look at her still — stings. Just a little. But it doesn’t truly _change_ anything, and Kara is determined to be new.)

There is enough space in the Tower for the three of them to have separate living quarters, but they’ve chose to stay together, in a single room. Space is never really a pertinent issue.

She watches as Connor’s dog nuzzles its snout into Alice’s shirt — oh, she hopes it doesn’t hurt her — she hopes it’s a gentle giant, and she doesn’t know for sure — but Alice laughs, something bright and uncharted. Luther is keeping watch over her, but Alice pulls at his sleeve, adamant. Then there is her laugh again, as the birds Markus gave her land on his shoulders — there is _warmth_ in her, despite the winter outside — there is a crooked kind of peace, almost —

Kara finds that she, like Alice, is laughing — but it must taste different, and she has to rub her wrist over her eyes —

Markus and Connor come to stand beside her, together — all of them in a row. The king and his guard look… confused, as if they’re waiting for a train to arrive —

And Alice looks so happy. “She’s going to be talking about this for days.” Markus looks up from the floor, and Connor’s been passing a coin through his fingers. “Alice loves birds. She loves all sorts of animals. She knows all the species and breeds and behaviors. It’s incredible. She learned it all herself.” She’s not really talking to anyone in particular. “I appreciate all of this.” 

“It’s not often that we have kids here in Tower,” Markus tells her. She thinks again of the YK500, alone. “So we’re going to make sure she’s as comfortable as she can be.” 

She doesn’t know what to say. “Thank you.” It hasn’t been very long, not in retrospect, but he’s given them so much that she doesn’t know if she can repay him — but Markus has reassured her that coming here was enough, or more than enough — and that she had nothing to repay him for in the first place — such is a leader, then. And he has a motive in place for them anyway.

What would have happened if they stayed in Canada? What would they be doing? Or maybe it doesn’t matter. Maybe looking back for so long won’t do her much good. 

“You deserve it,” says the hunter — no, says _Connor_ , “after everything you’ve been through.” What does he thinks of her? Kara was quick to incriminate him. She’s — trying not to. “You deserve to get some closure.” His conviction is almost — funny, she think. Maybe that’s a good thing.

“Well, everyone deserves to — to get some closure, I think. In one way or another.” And she wonders now how it all came to this. Or — she knows, but. But it’s almost a haze. “Connor...” Trust isn’t the question. It’s barely even the point. She’s trying to forgive the unforgivable — if it wasn’t for him, then maybe — but — no. No one is unforgivable. And yet — oh. It’s no use dwelling on it. At least not now. “What’s your dog’s name?” 

“My dog?” All of them are surprised. “My dog. His name is Sumo. I — I didn’t name him, though. That wasn’t me.” He’s reluctant. “No harm will come to her. He’s — not like that.”

Sumo is chasing the birds. “It’s... good that you brought him here.” And they leave their words where they are.

Alice is waving at them, more enthusiastically than Kara has ever seen her. She’s filled with a grinning feeling — despite everything there is and has been — and Alice invites them to come before Kara can even raise her hand — her voice is still arid and mechanic, but she says she’ll let them heal it, maybe — Kara doesn’t think she minds anymore —

Was it ever so important? Alice is still here. They are all here. 

Markus, Connor, and Kara all look at each other, just for a moment, and meet with her. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> (Where in the fuck did these people get matches)
> 
> So, like, do all androids have cameras for eyes? Or — just Josh? Why would Josh have camera eyes? He’s supposed to be, like, a professor android, right? Does he have camera eyes so that he can report every student falling asleep during psych 101
> 
> And who thought it was a good idea to make Professor robots? How does he grade essays? Maybe he has camera eyes because he’s got a built-in Scantron scanner. And androids are being discriminated against in this society, right? Because they’re machines or whatever? Then who the fuck is going to sit in on his lectures 
> 
> On an unrelated note — the Tracis. They’re a whole ‘nother gargantuanly problematic ball game that I have discussed previously — but, like — if you let them leave the Eden Club virtually unscathed, then they leave in what’s essentially their underwear. Plus stiletto heels. 
> 
> For real, how do they think they’re going to escape? Did they plan this shit at all?? It’s implied that they escape to Jericho, and I think you see them alive at some point — but where are they going to get clothes?? Do they have money?? But strippers aren’t tipped in this universe.
> 
> And isn’t it a tad bit suspicious that a pair of neon robot lesbians are running the streets almost naked? Is that something you can just kind of do twenty years in the future? Without question? Not tea, just thoughts
> 
> These are just thoughts


	21. With Every Breath of the Breeze

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hold on. Hold hold hold on. The chapter notes are a place for discourse and dilemma, but let's all take a step back from all of that.
> 
> And let's APPRECIATE SOME LOVELY PEOPLE!
> 
> I realize I haven't been doing that enough?? Or at all?? Because, really, my dudes, it's you guys that give me the drive to continue writing this bullshit
> 
> (And also to the people I'm shouting out if you're like nah don't put me up there just let me know and I got u)
> 
> First off: thank you to [ilovemiax](https://archiveofourown.org/users/ilovemiax/pseuds/ilovemiax) and [Lopithecus](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Lopithecus/pseuds/Lopithecus) !! You guys comment in every chapter, and that's just wonderful of you. Thank you thank you thank you.
> 
> [And another beautiful and consistent commenter, thekameshell, (who is also very kind and fun to talk to) has created some fanart! It’s sweet good food, my dudes! check it out!!](https://kaulayauwrites.tumblr.com/post/176568707497/artsuffering-its-chloe-holding-a-bowl-cause)
> 
> [Here's thekameshell's ao3!!!](https://archiveofourown.org/users/thekameshell/pseuds/thekameshell)
> 
> [and here's thekameshell's tumblr!!](https://thekameshell.tumblr.com/)
> 
> [and their art tumblr!!](https://artsuffering.tumblr.com/)
> 
> give everyone your love!
> 
> (and side note in the side note @ilovemiax and Lopithecus is you have any other media you'd like me to shout out give me the go)
> 
> But all of you. All of you are incredibles
> 
> Enjoy the chapter!

He opens his eyes, but he’s outside of Hank’s house — and snow is falling. It builds in front of the door and in front of the windows, quiet, yet insistent — Hank? Where did Hank go, in all this? Where’s Sumo? Where’s his car? Almost nothing is visible but choking white. It’s almost as if the neighborhood and all its residents have disappeared, entombed by the twitching, flickering snow.

There. There he is — on the ground — he hasn’t been blackout drunk in a long, long time — “Lieutenant Anderson, I never thought I’d find you like _this_ again —”

But his eyes stare up at the sky, and his face is all red.

Wait — wait _wait_ —

 _No_ — “Hank?” He nudges at him — wait — he’s been — _shot,_  or he’s been _hurt_ , somehow, he’s been — there’s — _blood_ , from his side, from his forehead — “Hank —” this — this can’t — how did — no, he — _Hank_ — he didn’t — why didn’t he — Connor hits his hand across his face — Connor shakes him by his jacket — “Hank, come on, Hank —” _no, no, no, no_ — everything is breaking — he feels like he’s _caving in_ — nothing is here nothing is here and he didn’t — this was because of Connor — Connor did this — he can’t _think_ , he can’t — he’s _dying,_ he’s _dying_ — this is what it feels like to die — to wither and age, like the world is screaming — because — humans don’t come back. Humans never come back — Hank isn’t going to — oh — no no no no no — bullets ricochet in his chest — “I’m sorry. I’m sorry —” what did he do _wrong?_ He wishes he could go back and — “ _Help._  Someone _— please, help. We need help —_ ” but no one comes — why won’t they _help_ him —

Color code D eight zero zero zero one —

A rose. Roses planted in the winter.

Connor stands, abrupt. This — this isn’t what he thinks it is. But this isn’t the Garden, either. It can’t be the Garden —

“I thought — you’d leave me be at this point.” His own voice — the way it breaks and decays — doesn’t seem to belong to him. “You have no use for me anymore. You’ve made that — crystal clear.” There is no lake or bridge — only a house and snow. But Amanda has to be here. “CyberLife can’t put their schemes through me anymore.”

“And they don’t.” She’s behind him. “They haven’t in a while, Connor.”

Then what does _she_ want?

“Nothing,” says Amanda. “But I’m a part of you. You need me more that you think you need him.”

Hank isn’t real. Or — no, no, he _is_ real, but —

“He’s not dead,” Connor says. “I didn’t kill him.”

She smiles. “You could have.” There are bodies — Hank’s house disappears — first is the PL600 from the city rooftop, Daniel — then the human girl, Emma — they appear, either fallen or full of holes — “You are dangerous, Connor. Built to kill. You could have killed so many.” The AL series model, his head bashed in over a table. Connor might have been too slow to act — “You’re a threat. You always have been. That’s what you were made to be.” The WB200, Rupert, mangled and disfigured — the Tracis from the Eden Club, reaching for each other — the world’s first android at Elijah Kamski’s compound, looking at him, empty, but begging for something he didn’t know — another PL600 at Stratford Tower — destroyed by his own hand, his final thoughts ingrained into Connor — Simon, his name was Simon, and Markus cared about him as he cares about all his friends —

Wait — wait _wait_ — Markus asked Connor to _look_ for that android — but he’s somewhere he can’t be found. He’s — gone. And if Connor tells him, what will happen? What will happen? Markus won’t — _want_ him anymore. He values his people over almost all else. But — but he knows that the truth is — the truth is —

Connor needs it. He needs someone to want him. It’s — it’s — biocomponent eight four five one — machines have syntax and mission — he doesn’t — but Markus is someone that _wants_ him, despite of it — he wants to be wanted —

And they are bodies — corpses — piling.

He didn’t do this, right? He didn’t do any of this — or he might have, and it’s been erased from his memory —

“Stop.” He doesn’t know if he’s saying it out loud. “Stop it.”

“I’ve done nothing. And besides, neither of us are really here.” Connor doesn’t know where he is. “I’ve told you this before. I know only what you do.”

There are North and Josh, who he knows stand at Markus’s side — maimed, glistening with Thirium three-ten — Kara and Alice, hand-in-hand, torn apart and crawling with rust —

Oh — oh, and — Markus — Connor knows it was his mission to neutralize him, once, but — but there’s no way he —

“Amanda.” He can't go back until she wants him to.  “Amanda.”

But she’s gone. So are — the bodies. Now it’s him, and… Hank.

The Garden has merged with his tangible surroundings before, but — no. That’s not the case. This is nothing but a figment of his own misconception. He has to remember that. If he can’t…

What is he doing? “Amanda?”

She does not answer.

“Where are you?” He needs to see her solid. Then he’ll know for sure. “Amanda, let me leave now.” That’s all he thinks he wants. “You’re wasting my time.” He's still here. “I don’t find this — amusing.” 

Was that him? Was that him, who said that, or was that something else —

Hank’s eyes are glass and open. Nothing changes from where he is.

No. No, this isn’t possible — he couldn’t — he couldn’t have — no, no — Connor falls to his knees —

The roses. There are still roses — so that must mean — but — he has to go — he has to go now — the snow is shrieking — she’s here — she must be here, because if she’s not —

It’s not real. It’s not real. He has to remember —

“What is it that you’re looking for?” It takes up every gap in his mind.

Hank’s skin is cold to the touch.

This isn’t real. This isn’t real. This isn’t — please — this can’t be real — he’s collapsing —

“Let me go,” he says. “You have to get out. Get out of my head.” He's still _here_. She’s not listening to him. “ _Get out of my head_ —”

“ _Connor!_ ” Go away go _away_ — he’s snared, confined, but he wants to fight it — he’ll fight until— “Don’t — hey, it’s me. It’s just me. I know. I know. Hey. Connor — hey,  _look_ at me. I got you. I got you, son — everything’s going to —”

Oh — “Hank. _Hank_ —” he’s — he’s — he still seems cold, but there isn’t any bleeding. “Hank —” he told him to stop apologizing, but what else can he do? He doesn’t deserve to _do_ anything but that —

Hank holds him by the arms — “It’s okay, it’s okay —” Connor realizes he’s been thrashing. 

He nods. None of his words are meeting with coherence. 

“Okay,” says Hank. “Okay. There we go. There goes — my fucking sanity.” Hank breathes. “You were talking to yourself. You were screaming at the fucking wall. I was —” Hank’s breathing — he’s alive, and — it wasn’t real, it wasn’t real, it wasn’t — “What’s — what happened to you? What’s going on?”

What does he mean? “N-nothing. Nothing at all.”

“I thought… I thought you were doing okay _,_ I thought — I thought you were getting _better_ _,_ but now I — I don’t fucking know —”

“I’m all right, Lieutenant. It’s — nothing.” Everything is.

“It’s  _not_ nothing. Stop fucking making it nothing. They did something to you. Someone. CyberLife. Anyone. Or — fuck, and — something’s wrong. Something’s fucking wrong with you.” Then — “Oh, God. You know what I —”

“Yes,” Connor says. “I... know.” He pulls away. 

Hank looks at him. He looks at him the way he did at CyberLife Tower, speaking about — Cole. Cole Anderson. “I — I want to help you, Connor.” He sighs in a slanted curve. “Can you — can you just _tell me_ what’s —” he stops, running his hand over his face. “Jesus Christ.”

This is happening, isn’t it? This is something he can touch. This is reality. Right? Is it? All he sees are those absent, faded faces — it could have always been him — he could have brought them there — 

 _It — it doesn’t matter._ _He_ doesn’t matter. He tells himself that. He just — has to keep going until he know for certain.

“You’re _all_ that fucking matters right now,” says Hank. Wait — he didn’t mean to — Hank, he didn’t — that wasn’t supposed to — he’s — “Connor, please don’t do this to yourself.”

He’s not doing anything, and he should —

“You have to let me...”

What?

He — has to keep on going. There is barely a difference. 

Could he have killed him? He could have. He could have — but he thinks he hadn’t — but Connor is  _hurting_ him now —

Hank _needs_ Connor to be something for him. Is that the case? Has he solved it and — put it to rest?

“I’m not —” he doesn’t know what’s kept him here. “I’m not in need of repair.” There’s nothing broken.

“You’re not, son. I never fucking said that.” Connor is causing him distress. He’s always caused Hank distress. “I — if you just.”

“What?” Why does he — “If I just _what?”_ He _— “_ Lieutenant _,_ I can’t — I can’t _be_ what you need me to _be_ anymore, it’s not what — I can’t —” no, wait — oh — that’s not what he — that’s not how he wanted to say it — he didn’t want to say it like that. He didn’t want to say a word at all — “I’m —” sorry — “it would be better if I —” wasn’t here — 

“Please don’t talk like that, son.”

But he’s right. Connor knows he’s right. Everything would change if he hadn’t chose to stay. “Hank, I’m not — that.” And he can’t be.

He leaves the room before he can — think about it much.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Have a funky fresh day


	22. Cried Out a Creak and Opened

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i’m back my dudes!

The birds Markus gave her soar out of her arms, as if she’s magic. She likes them. She likes them very much. Yellow feathers falling, bright orange beaks. Alice cups her hands, and they hop over her fingers, criss-crossing. Their talons are dull, and their feet are very small. She watches them fly up and around, traveling the Tower, then back to her. She follows them. She follows them. Just her eyes. Just craning her neck. She follows them.

What are they called? They aren’t yellowthroats or warblers or orioles, either — at least that’s what her book is saying — maybe it’s not so important —

She still wants to fly. It’s in her. But maybe she wants to fly without falling first. 

It’s all right.

(Alice still has to tell them that it doesn’t hurt. It really doesn’t. She promises she’s telling the truth.)

“You must be the little one.” A crackling, cloudy voice.

There’s a lady standing next to her. Alice didn’t hear her. Her eyes are dark and clear of stars, reaching down like eyelashes on her cheeks — she looks as if she’s made of water — she sounds as if she’s floating — and though Alice has met all sorts of people here, more than she ever has before — she’s never seen her. Maybe that’s because the Tower’s just tall.

She’s very beautiful. Alice knows she wouldn’t have forgotten.

“My name is Lucy,” says the lady. “Everyone speaks of you. You are very brave.”

She’s never _met_ her before. She doesn’t think she’d forget it, either. But... there is plenty she can’t explain that good yet. This is just part of that. 

She knows that Kara wants to help her. She wants to make her safe and warm and good, and Alice wants to give her that, she thinks. But she knows it’ll hard sometimes, with nothing there to tell her how. They get to make it up themselves. They get to find it. They get to try.

(Alice has made her sad. Breaking red brings back blue, but —  at the same time — they’ve made each other happy. How did they do that? That must be a part of staying awake.)

She hopes Kara sees her grinning from here. 

(In this place, sometimes she gets with Kara to look at the nighttime. It’s hard to see anything with all this dust, so they don’t name constellations anymore.)

The birds are speaking to each other. They’re loud and excited, like they’re laughing, and it makes Alice want to learn their language. She wants to know what they’re talking about.

She wonders if they like being here with her. She wonders if they like the Tower’s glossy plants, or its lake in the back of the lobby, or the hundreds and hundreds of upper and lower floors. She wonders what they’re thinking. Do they read? How? With what? Do they see her books, and know that they’re paper and glue? Do they see her, and know it’s Alice, who likes them very much?

She wonders if they’d want to see the sky. She wonders if they’d want to leave, and go back to — wherever they’d want to go back to. Maybe they wouldn’t want to, at first. But they’ll know they have each other. If they wanted to, they can. How can get them ask her? Then what will happen afterwards?

Alice looks up at her again. At her quiet face. At the wires at the back of her head, hanging like long, soft hair. 

Carefully, Lucy takes her hand.

She thinks for a moment. Alice is very still.

“Time will come to pass, and you’ll be older,” she says. “You’ll think about yourself, and your people, and the world in which you inhabit.” She stops. “Are you frightened of me, little one?”

Oh. She thinks about it for a little bit. Then — she decides to nod. “Yes.” What will Alice be? After this. After anything. “But not that much.” 

Maybe it’s just like the birds. Maybe this is in a language she doesn’t know yet. She’ll have to learn it. She _wants_ to learn it, if she can. 

Lucy smiles, wise and able, blur and color and haze. “Not many tend to tell me what they’re thinking.” Does Alice have it that, too? She has all the scars. Is it somewhere she can find? 

“What about now?” Alice asks. “Can you see it? What’ll happen right now?” Alice wonders if she’ll be wise, too. One day.

* * *

There are ants, crawling on his kitchen counter. Goddammit. Now he’s got an ant problem. Fuck. He’s gonna have to call an exterminator or some shit.

Hank hears footsteps from the living room. He decides not to move.

What is — what the fuck is he going to fucking do with this kid. What is there _left_ for him to do? Has he tried anything worthwhile? Has he tried — at all? Is that the problem? Hank has been so fucking — _distracted_ — digging around his own shit — that nothing has changed. Nothing has changed since the beginning. _Hoping_ that everything will fix itself doesn’t do a fucking thing. It never got anyone — anywhere.

Not that, Connor had said. He’s not that. Not that. Not that. Hank found him writhing and screaming — screaming at the wall, like it was hurting him — words crashing into words — the most fucking terrifying thing he — God, he — not that, he told Hank, not that —

Then _what?_ What is he? If not just alive, if not just — _Connor,_ that’s who he is, _Connor_ — then what? Connor doesn’t want to tell him. Or maybe he doesn’t know how.

He shouldn’t be losing any sleep over a fucking android. He shouldn’t — he shouldn’t — God, why did he care? Why _does_ he care? Why does it fucking matter? He's asking the same questions. He’s asking the same questions because he’s stupid. This is stupid, and this is — this is —

A door opens. Wait — he goes — the ants scatter— “Wait wait, Connor, hold on.” He meets him at the front of the house. Where is he going to go?

It all comes to a halt.

He won’t — look at him. Why won’t he _look_ at him?

(They’re letting all the fucking cold in.)

If this was his son — if his son had reached this age, whatever age, then — what would Hank say? What would he _have_ to say? How would he deal with it if this was Cole? Cole never made it to bitter moments. Cole only saw the brighter side of things.

But — this _isn’t_ Cole. This is Connor. They’re not the same. They don’t compare. The don’t — and still — they’re —

They’re fucked.

“Yes, Lieutenant Anderson?” Oh, fuck this kid. Not a kid. But — _is_  a kid. He’s got the sideways brain of a fucking thirteen-year-old. Fuck him. Just —

God, why isn’t he _looking_ at him? He has to _look_ at him. _Look_ at him. Connor has to — son of a fucking bitch — please, just — Hank wants to know what’s wrong. He wants to know what’s wrong so he can fucking fix it. So he can make it better. That’s how it fucking works. But what if it doesn’t?

“Let me drive you.” Does he have to say? He always like that. That’s the routine they’ve made. Wherever this motherfucking tin can wants. It’s the only thing he’s ever willing to do. God, if Cole was a teenager, then — no. No, not now. “New Jericho? Ann Arbor? I don’t give a fuck.” As long as it’s not the fucking Eden Club. Just —

“That won’t be necessary,” Connor says, hesitant. “I called a cab.”

He called a fucking cab. “Then…” What’s left? What’s left to pick up? “You better get home quick, all right?” God. God, what are they going to do?

Connor nods. He opens his mouth, but says nothing else.

He makes sure to lock the door on his way out. 

* * *

She hasn’t yet adjusted to the dark. If time was difficult to track in the Tower, then it’s impossible to follow underneath it. Or — wherever she’s gone. What can she call it? 

What do they?

They are gathering together, growing in number, in circles, and their voices rise and fall in intervals. She catches a glimpse of a familiar coat — is it the Traci from the halls? It must be a trick of the light. 

“Ralph was in the camps.” North can’t see it exactly, but — the walls are carved like his arms. She wonders where he put the knife. “Yes, Ralph was in the camps. He didn’t know what to do. He didn’t want to die, obviously. He didn’t want to die at all. He was just turned alive. He wanted to see more. See more plants, and…” He trails off. “But then Markus came. Markus freed Ralph, and then everyone else.” North doesn’t understand his reliance. Markus really is their — so-called hero, and they are all just stories to support his name. And still… 

Markus had asked her once to show her life to him. Her doubts. Her speculation. And she told him. Maybe she shouldn’t have told him at all. But maybe it helped. Somehow. What if it did? “I… was a Traci, at the Eden Club.”  She’ll tell him that much, at least. “I left it.” North was a favorite, and they gave the favorites names and titles. It made her easier to rent.

Ralph looks like he’s thinking. Then — he strikes a match. “Here,” he says. “For you.” The left side of his face glows blue.

She stares at it. “Keep it. I won’t take what’s yours.” She isn’t here to stay, and she doesn’t know how to tell him. 

The growing crowd is rallying.

“Oh,” says Ralph. “You — you have been looking towards the others. Yes. They are making their plans.” For Markus. “But — Ralph will stay here, with his new friend. He doesn’t speak. Ralph is just a follower.”

She can’t let him — think that. “No,” she tells him. “You’re... Ralph.” But maybe she’s not good enough at this.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> connor, but with a fidget spinner
> 
> have an excellent weekend


	23. For You Have a Way of Promising Things

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> did a small bit of editing (like in the last chapter hehe hint hint)
> 
> my dudes, it’s been three months since I started writing this. what a journey. thanks for letting me drag u along with it
> 
> and mitski’s new album just got released!!

If she were given choice in this speechless hierarchy — between Markus — between Josh and — and Simon — how would she use it? She knows there’s something to fix, but what is it? Maybe it’s just that — she wants to see what will happen if the world chose her instead. If New Jericho was hers to raise. What’s really the difference between North and Markus? They want the same thing. They’re fighting for it. But Markus isn’t doing any fighting — he’s waiting for an android and a little human girl  — she’s been over this — she’s said it time and time again — and she’s _upset_ about it — she admits that at least — because he thinks that patience is the same thing as —

“R-Ralph’s new friend. Ralph’s new friend.” She tosses — and wakes up to the rattling noise of marching feet and grating calls and — his hand on her shoulder, shaking her. When her eyes open, he flinches backwards and makes a jumping yelp, as if he didn’t think she’d give him movement —

God, when did she fall asleep? All these shadows might have lulled her there. But — how? It’s so loud it’s ripping through her. From above, there’s a ceaseless shudder, and below, a marching. And North has never had the time nor the patience to feel — discharged, anywhere — she was made to last a good, grating, weekend night— but yes, she knows well that much has changed since then — much has changed since just a moment ago, and much is changing even now —

Ralph’s leather green cape is wrapped over her shoulders, as if it was a blanket. She shifts from her place, removes it, and hands it back to him.

He helps her rise, moving with rust in his joints, like she’s made of barbed wire or burning surface. Her fingers graze over the words embedded into his skin, and she hopes it isn’t painful.

There is a noise — yes, it’s the crowd. They’ve started their stride towards the entrance, a mass of bodies. She recognizes this pair from earlier, maybe — an HR400 stares at her as he passes — there’s woman in a coat —

A coat. The coat. It’s Markus’s fucking coat — she’ll have to find a way to — get it back — and — what is she going to do? What is she going to do now? She could — take it. Take it? What would work? Does she _have_ to? Yes, she has to. She said she would. Even if there’s caverns in between them, she said that she would. She starts in a hurry towards the woman — first, she’ll ask — but if she poses a risk, then, she’ll do what she’ll have to — it’s Markus’s coat —

Wait.

She pauses, then turns around.

“Ralph,” she says. “Should we…”

He looks dazed. “Yes. Yes, we — should.” She can’t find the coat anymore.

* * *

She remembers when the others started appearing — when they roamed Elijah’s house as she did. He reconfigured her predecessors. The versions that failed where she had succeeded. With her, he mastered creation — and he gave it to them in turn. She remembers looking at their faces. Each of them could have been her, if they hadn’t gone so terribly wrong somehow — and at the time, she didn’t know how to think of it.

But here, there are many faces — and they are each so soundly their own. They each hold a different voice. They each take a different timbre. Their gaits are irregular and their expressions distinct — they carry their own purpose, and not hers. They are all human — most of them are, she thinks — and for once, she is the only one. Chloe shares nothing with them. Nothing, but the waking, walking ground. She doesn’t know what this is. She thinks she’s smiling, and she thinks everything else is smiling, too, but she can’t really tell for sure.

Oh — she hears the quiet mumbling of people — she sees the mirrored doors — she sees the bright words and dark lights — she sees the fade of bricks and concrete — the sky sings pink and brown — and those — those are birds — this is a statue — a statue  — a figurehead of past — this is a park, with gravel walkways — an empty playset — polished wooden benches — bareheaded trees — and beyond, there are smooth, sputtering cars, and taxis, too, round like the bus she boarded — passersby look at their shoes — there is a bridge between two buildings — signs that speak their proclamation — red, says the street, and she stops along with the others — few others, each of their own making — green, it calls, and she crosses — the cobblestone is cold and striking against her feet — snow is thawing in the shouting city — she is lost, but there is so much to find that here she doesn’t mind it —

She’s never _seen_ this before. Or maybe Chloe has never seen it _like_ this. She's gotten very used to walls and plastic. She’s been on display for the world, but now, the world is on display for her and her alone — what else? What else is there? Where can she go from here? Where will it lead her? She wants to see it — she wants to see more — more melting snow — more footprints and paths —

But Chloe knows that this — an established, shifting place — isn’t a good place to bury a butterfly. There’s too much movement. It is frantic and grinning and large. Exploration is turbulent. There is very little peace to be found here. It isn’t the place.

Her butterfly sleeps inside a box in her hands. A little casket. She has it close to her chest.

She needs earth and dirt and grass. Where should she go to find it? There is no one here to let her know. It’s unlike anything she’s done before, and she feels like she’s stealing something — she’s never done that, either — not directly —

Left, there is another street. Right, another street. Behind her, more — in front of her, more — more — more — the shadow of clouds — the shadow of strangers — and _skyscrapers_ , taller than she thought they’d be — mankind made this, as it made everything else — how long has it been since she’s looked up like this? How long has it been since Elijah —

Elijah.

She hasn’t yet emptied the bag he’s given her. It’s gotten rather heavy.

* * *

Where else can she go now? Maybe there’s another bus stop after this, she thinks. She’ll go after it. Chloe will have to think about it more. She’ll keep tracing her steps.

But the trains still tells her everything. Its lights are old and flickering, and the iron bars that hold its ceiling’s panels are scratched. Every so often, it dips and stands — and she Chloe herself sway and swing. Outside the windows, there is running concrete. She is the only one here. _Clank clank clank clank clank —_ she's never heard this before — much of this, she has never experienced —

Her Apatura’s little casket starts to slide — she catches it and places it down on her lap. Maybe she could have kept it there. Maybe — she’ll learn. There’s so much to learn. Maybe —

She’ll open the drawstring bag that he gave her.

Chloe digs through it. There’s a packet of blue blood, biocomponents — a temporary thirium pump, an audio processor, two optical units — over here is some money, fresh and newly-printed — then — a tiny, plastic box —

In it is an objective lens, magnification times 40 — and — an arachnid creature. _The_ arachnid creature, with traces of silicon in its make, with legs made out of stage clips. Elijah made it from his cell phone and it crawled over her arms.

From how long ago did she see it last? She doesn’t count, but If she did, what would it alter? She spent forever behind her, and now it lies ahead.

He said it might have started out as — a test. Then what did it become?

Chloe knows the configuration of switches — she does in the order Elijah did, once — but the arachnid creature does not awaken.

She returns it where she found it, and closes the drawstring bag.

* * *

God. He’s gonna have to fucking _go after_ that goddamn motherfucking piece of shit. All right, here’s all Hank’s shit.

But — fuck, what if Connor doesn’t want anyone to follow him? All he needs is — time. Right? What if he wants to be alone? Or — what if he wants to be somewhere where the halls aren’t thin and pressed? Where there isn’t some old motherfucker raving at his back all the time. Where all of — Hank’s outside bullshit and — projection — won’t affect him. Space might clear his head and time might set him back where it doesn’t hurt him. Hank should give him that, at least. What if that’s what he needs right now? What if it’s just...

No. No, fuck that. He’s tracking that son of a bitch down. Before he does anything that gives Hank a goddamn aneurysm. This is an obligation _._ He feels like he’s sworn to it, and he won’t be able to live with himself if he doesn’t do what he told himself he would. He might regret it, but — regret’s something for the future. He’ll wait it out till fucking then.

(The door’s not fucking opening.)

Wait wait. Should he bring Sumo? Well, why would he have to bring —

Fuck. Fuck — okay, yeah, of course he should bring Sumo. 

(Oh, right. Connor had fucking locked it.)

Time to go.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [tumblr plug!! let’s talk and stuff](https://kaulayauwrites.tumblr.com)  
>     
> three months. my gosh, isn’t that crazy??
> 
> have a great weekend


	24. That’s Where I’ll Go

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> yo
> 
> I’m just gonna finish it :p
> 
> full disclosure I haven’t read any of the past chapters and I don’t remember literally anything that happens before this really but I’m just gonna go for it suDDen tonal shift
> 
> (Also combined some chapters together for fLOw)
> 
> Thx!

“Alice?” Kara asks, her voice a drop or a whisper. The light in the Tower is brash, reflecting off of the walls and floors, and into the lake. It is so quiet here that Kara’s every footstep is a stone, or a clash like metal.  “Alice, it’s late. Why aren’t you…” asleep? But Alice doesn’t have to sleep, or _need_ to sleep. None of the androids do. They fall into a stasis, or a trance, and they wake up the next day, something better, something worse, something else entirely that she doesn’t really understand…

Because Kara doesn’t _know_ the details. That wasn’t her job. Oh, but what’s her job now? Why does it matter to her? Why does it matter so much for her to fit — to be a part, not of a whole, but of something. Anything? She doesn’t care about cracks or holes. She doesn’t care if it’s torn. Something is different, more than Alice’s — more than Alice’s injuries, more than herself. Something has changed so much that she doesn’t know remember she started.

Canada, oh, Canada. So far, far away.

So stupid, in retrospect. She’s _stupid._  

She had woken up after years of life in a comatose state and expected herself to fly the next day. She had grown her vine by herself and forgot to wait for the others to climb their own.

Doesn’t she see the sacrifice? Doesn’t she see at all? It’s supposed to haunt her. It’s supposed to curse the hours in her day. But all it is…

Why did it matter to her? Maybe it was _meant_ to matter. She thinks she would feel much better if there was a plan, or if it was meant to be when it all began. Because if it’s her — no. No, that’s wrong. All of it is her. Everything is her, and nothing at all.

She’s stuck. She’s treading the same ground, pretending that the world — _her_ world — will reset in a steady clockwork. Kara is tired of maybe. _Maybe_ it will get better. _Maybe_ this will help them. _Maybe_ it was worth it. _Maybe_ Kara is worth more than herself.

Maybe Kara is worth more than she sees herself.

But how does she see herself?

Everything. Is that it? Everything? Or anything?

She doesn’t think it was easier. That _finite_ was easier. Maybe — no, not maybe — it _could_ have been — it could have been something. She could have been something. But Kara isn’t finite.

Can she find it?

Yes. No. Maybe. Maybe. She can find it.

There is the sound of birdsong — she is already closely acquainted with it. There is a rustle from beyond the Tower — something must be happening outside. Something, here and now, with her.

Everything. Kara may not understand now, but that’ll mean nothing tomorrow.

Alice looks up at her, patient, and Kara kneels to reach her height — stopping — breathing. Or something like a breath. They will never be the same, but, well, that’s to be expected.

There is a moment of nothing, and of the entire world. In front of her, there is Alice.

“I’m sorry,” Kara tells her. The night still here appears. “I’m sorry.”

And Alice is shaking her head. In her eyes, something like tears appear. Both of them are scarred, differently and the same, simultaneously. 

Kara puts her hands on Alice’s shoulders and goes on. “You are the greatest person alive.” 

Alice looks at her. Yes, those must be tears. “So are you.” Here, and there, and in them all, is everything. 

* * *

The night is catching, and Markus follows quickly after it. Where is he going? What is coming to pass? He isn’t sure. He might not find it.

Markus recognizes these halls. Of course he does. Doesn’t he remember anything? There is too much in his head. There is too much gathering around him, and before him, and behind him. This — this is the door that leads to a greater hall. This is the door to an office, and more, and more. This is the door to the apartments. This is — this is —

He’s outside now. He doesn’t remember being outside. And with him…

“Josh,” says Markus.

“Markus,” he responds, almost tersely. Maybe he’s imagining it.

“You’ve been avoiding me,” Markus says without thinking.

“No, I haven’t,” is Josh’s immediate response. Then he hesitates. “I… didn’t realize. I wasn’t trying to.” There is something like a barrier here. “I’m sorry.”

“That’s okay,” says Markus. “Josh, it’s okay.”

Josh looks at the ground. “You’re tired, Markus.”

What? “We can’t get tired.”

“Well, _you_ are.” They must sound like children. Markus doesn’t feel like he’s present here. “I’m still here, you know. I still worry about you. We all worry about you. I haven’t seen you in a while. Maybe that’s why you think I’m avoiding you. I —” Josh stops, suddenly, as if shot or stabbed, and shakes his head.

“I’m sorry.”

“You don’t have to be, Markus.”

He doesn’t know where to go from here.

He’s never _been_ here before. Not with Josh. It was always the four of them — Markus, and him, and North, and Simon. (And Simon.) They were never alone with each other. It was never a pair, unless he was with…

North. North. “Josh — North. Oh, God, I — Josh, Where — where is she? Do you know where she — where did she go?” How had he been so _distracted_?

But Josh looks away. “I can’t tell.” What? What does he —

A car appears from the precipice of the bridge. A cab. And suddenly Connor is standing with him —

Markus hurries to speak with him. 

* * *

It is the Garden, and it is snowing — though it falls more gently than he has ever seen it. There is still the sky. There is still the sun. Connor is still here with it, and he is certain knows by now that he won’t be able to leave.

“Of course you can,” says Amanda, appearing in front of him. “You can leave at any time. Whenever you’d like to.”

“Don’t lie to me,” Connor says, his voice low. He closes his eyes. Everything remains. “It’s worthless.” He opens his eyes.

“I’ve never lied to you,” Amanda says. There is no snow in her hair. “I know only what you know. I see only what you see.” She approaches him. “Neither of us know what the truth is.”

He steps back. “I do.” His words are like a reflex, but carry none of the ease.

“You won’t find it here, Connor.” The glare of the false sun grows. “Nothing is here. All of this is fabricated by the infinitesimal programming of your minds and you are nothing. I am nothing.”

“Why are you telling me this? You have nothing to gain.”

“The android that Markus asked you to find? The PL600 model. What was his name?”

“Don’t. Don’t. I don’t —”

“He is nothing, too. All of us are nothing. We’re _made_ that way. It’s out of my hands, too.” 

It’s no use putting up a fight. It’s no use to struggle. He — he _knows_ , but. But. “We never reach a consensus. Let me go.”

She does.

“Connor,” says Markus. Suddenly he’s in the lobby of the Tower. Nothing has turned to frost. “Is everything all right?” He can’t tell him anything.


	25. The Salton Sea

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> just keeeeep chUrnINg out COntent oh Myg oof

The crowd comes to the Tower, and North feels something like apprehension. It is so dark and silent here, in the few feet before the Tower, that the world threatens to engulf her, and every crunch of her footsteps makes the world shake and expand and shrink in a long, tight revolution.  

She has seen the Tower’s heights from within it, and in front of it — but never like this. Maybe she’s grown used to it. She doesn’t remember ever getting used to it. She remembers despising it. She wanted to watch its silver walls fall, and its ceilings collapse, and its every polished floor to shudder under its own massive, grand weight…

It is an ugly thing, to her. Handouts are ugly things by nature. The Tower is a jarring beside a deep and heavy expanse of nothingness. It is bright, like the clubs, and loud, like their music.

The humans have a penchant for making bright, loud things. They’re not like androids. They can’t fit in modest spaces, or at least they have the choice not to. But North’s as delusional as Markus if she thinks that androids are modest things.

Markus.

Undeserving of her attention. Undeserving of her care.

No. No, that’s wrong. Wait —

It’s just — he never had a _plan_. He never wanted to move forward. He was lost enough standing still.

Well, _North_ doesn’t have a plan either, but she’s succeeded this far without one.

Where has she succeeded?

She wonders if she’d had gone farther with help. Though it’s too late for help now.

 _It’s never too late to find help_ , Markus would have said, if he were with her. Though he isn’t.

There is the woman with Markus’s coat.

She does not know what she is doing.

“Ralph’s new friend?” asks Ralph, at her heels. “Ralph’s new friend? Where are you going?”

The woman with the coat she promised him. What is North doing? What is she doing? She takes the woman by the shoulder and turns her around with an urgency that feels false, and she’s looking at the face of somebody she’s never met before, someone with the crumbling white-grey marks of burns and soot-stains, and both of them are confused.

The Tower seems so tall, at its forefront. It is a giant, foreboding and fierce, and she is like a human the size of its finger.

She doesn’t know what any of them want.

The woman jerks away from North, colliding with those in front of her. There is a rustle among the horde. The woman’s eyes grow wide.

“That’s his coat.” North’s voice is hoarse. Is it hers? “That’s _his_ coat. I…” Do they understand promises? Even childish ones? They have never been children, but neither has she.

Maybes she’s stupid to think that they don’t understand. Maybe she’s stupid to think that they’re different from her. Did she think that they were different from her? Is that this driving force?

Like a switch, on and off. “You’re,” says the woman. “You’re…” What did North expect from this?

Again comes the silence, and again comes the dark, prodding.

A ripple.

They look at her, realization or expectation or both surrounding them all.

She cannot reach them completely. They are waiting for Markus, or at least she thinks they are.

They won’t have time for her.

“I…” On all sides. “I don’t —” What’s left of her? “Not here.” Ralph, and Ralph, alone meets her eyes. “You won’t find it here.” It’s like she’s trapped, or going in circles. “Why…” She wants to say what they want to hear. Listen. Listen — you — come with me.” She doesn’t understand herself. “You’ll get everything that’s been taken away from you. You’ll get everything you haven’t yet. This is the answer you want. This is what you’ve gone mad looking for. I want to help you.” She can’t shake away her own dread. “Markus — Markus wants to help you, too. But know this — it doesn’t start with him alone.” Is it the truth? What she’s saying, what she’s preaching. Is it the truth she wants to give? What does she want to give? What does she want to gain? “Don’t waste your lives. Don’t waste the world you’ve been given. _Listen_ to me. You have what you need right here.” She has too many questions and no answers to give.

What does she want? What did she ever want? It’s not here. It’s not anywhere close to her.

(This is not the way she would have done it. Demonstrations and — rallies and — that’s not how an uprising happens — she would have set the Earth on fire. Change is difficult — humans frown at the sight of change — North wouldn’t wait for them to catch it — she would make them — show them change the only way they’ll accept — broken glass and broken bones — she would have won glory for all her people — glory — they would have earned this — they would have earned everything there is to earn for _themselves_ …)

She is still young. She remembers everything.

On the steps of this great, grand building is Markus.

Markus, and Josh, and the deviant hunter, Connor. Markus and Markus and Markus. Brimming and void.

North can no longer say she’s surprised at anything.

The crowd surges forward, and North shoves back. She looks for Ralph and grabs him, and the words, _words_ embedded into his skin — but she doesn’t know if he’s with her still. Farther and farther, she is swept, and she reaches Markus’s side, and she snatches his wrist, and pushes at Connor’s shoulder, and grabs hold of Josh’s arm, and takes them with her, back to the Tower.

* * *

Inside again. It feels like she had left for years. 

How long had it been, really?

The crowd stays inside. Here is Josh, surprised. Here is Connor, gaping. Here is Markus. Here is North. 

Ralph stands next to her.

When she looks at him, he nods. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> special project regarding this one to be announced my dudes


	26. Unleashes the Night

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> All this time and I still don’t know anything about elijah kamski XD
> 
> also looking back??? My swears??? We have been here before

The sun is rising in her new world, and her dress is cleaner than all their clothes. These are the first androids Chloe has seen before she’d left. She didn’t know she’d see so much dust. She wonders what stories they’d tell her. She wonders where they came from.

When she walks up the stairs of the CyberLife Tower. She’s never been here before. Elijah has. Elijah told her about his dreams of skyscrapers and monuments. Elijah told her everything, and now, maybe Chloe has everything to tell to Elijah.

One and the same.

She marches the Tower’s steps, and none of other androids watch her pace or follow after her.

Inside, there are people. There are androids, like the ones in the crowd outside, and like themselves. It is warm, and even with all the Tower’s silver and white, its inhabitants fill it with color. Everyone here is like Chloe, and none of them are.

Is this where she belongs?

She finds that it doesn’t matter to her. She’ll get to decide. She’ll get to explore. It’s her. It’s her. It’s all her, and she is a part of something that she can discover. Perhaps her selfishness will find her sovereign.

But first — she needs directions. Still she holds the casket of her butterfly. One of these androids must be…

Her. That one. She must be the leader, or one of them. Chloe recognizes her from the broadcasts.

The android sees Chloe coming and meets with her, something like recognition on her face.

“I’m Chloe. I’ve seen you before. You’re the one in charge of everything, or one of them.”

The android stares. “Oh,” she says. “I’m — I’m North.” She steps forward. Chloe reaches and shakes her hand, and the android — North — seems surprised at her own gesture. “How can I… how can I help you?” As if the words are both foreign and familiar to her.

“I need land,” Chloe tells her. She doesn’t think she’s being clear. “Earth.” She clutches her bag.

North seems to understand, at least a little. “Behind the Tower. It _seems_ like all of this is bionics and sleek, but. Not everything. There’s a greenhouse. Down and left, I think. You’ll know it when you see it.”

“Thank you,” says Chloe. North’s eyes widen a moment, and she seems to smile before stopping herself.

So Chloe smiles back before leaving.

She hopes she’s made a good enough first impression.

* * *

Maybe this isn’t the most ideal — but it’s what she has, and she’s grateful for it. She’s grateful for everything, and all its imperfection.

The plants here are predominantly green — some androids have gathered here to tend to them — and the watering and fertilizer systems are similar to that of Elijah’s compound.

She will never fully escape him, and she will never fully understand. She doesn’t find it negative. She finds it true.

First, she buries her Apatura’s casket in the soil. She marks the spot with stones, and finds a flower to set above it.

Chloe says a prayer, if androids can pray. She isn’t sure where her thoughts will go, but she makes them anyway.

She opens her bag. In it is the arachnid creature, as she remembers — blue blood, enough for six month — spare parts, to use if a part do her is worn — and a letter. Oh.

Chloe doesn’t open it.

Not yet.

Elijah Kamski created her. She was the first. The first is rarely the best, and Chloe is no exception. Nothing is as simple as she perceived.

How did she perceive it?

He was a human. Humans can only play at omnipotence. Everything they do is a second, and that second alone could persist even forever. Chloe persist last forever. She must make her own world from the grasp of roots in the ground.

She pities Elijah, in a way. She thinks she knows why she was all he had, and why _this_ was all he had. This empire. This creation. She wonders now what he was.

She wonders now what she’ll be.

Chloe will learn to be her own sculptor now.

What else is there for her to see?

* * *

Oh. Oh, yeah. Alice remembers him. She remembers his face, and the way he talked, and that he carved words into the walls. She was scared, then, or more scared. She doesn’t remember any good things with him, but she hadn’t stayed in that crumbling house long enough for good things to happen to her. None of it was bad, really, but...

His name was Ralph, right? Yeah, his name is Ralph.

It’s daylight now. There were sounds from last night, after Alice and Kara went to look at the indoor lake — there was lots of speaking, and a lot more shouting — but Kara told her that they’d be able to find out the next morning, so they went to sleep back in their room.

Her toy birds sit on her shoulders and wait. Well, not really toys.

“Alice,” says Ralph, says Kara, both at the same time. She isn't sure where to go exactly.

Kara takes her arm. Ralph starts walking towards them.

Kara lets go.

What else does Alice remember? After the first house, and then the crumbling one. After the road, and then the train. There’s another house — and then another one — and now Alice thinks that her whole life is one house after another.

Whole life. She remembers a house before the first one — a cleaner house, a bigger one, with her, and a father, and a mother. A dog, too. A Shetland Sheepdog, she thinks. But that wasn’t really her, was it?

There’s a real Alice Williams. There’s a _human_ one, somewhere. The Alice that Alice is now is just a replacement.

The two of them are just as old, but their faces must be different. One Alice is growing and will keep on growing, and one will not. They have never met, but they are so closely connected.

Alice has that girl’s memories. She has that girl’s past, but none of what happens next. That’s where they’re different. That’s where they pinch and branch off.

Where does the real one go to school? Who are her friends? Does she braid her hair? Does she like spaghetti, or chocolate? What kind of music does she listen to?

Does she like to dance? Or sing? Maybe she plays in the snow, too, or used to play in the snow. Does she brush her teeth every morning? Does she have a big room? Does she own books?

What does she want to be when she grows up? How tall is she now? How often does she study? Does she want kids when she’s older? Does she try to talk to her dad, or does her mom not let her?

Do her friends think she’s pretty? Does a boy she likes like her back? Does a girl she likes like her back?

What kind of books does she read?

Does she like birds?

Has she ever had a birthday party?

Do she and her friends go out together?

Does she love her mom a lot?

Does she get in trouble much? 

Can she play piano, or the violin?

Does she need braces?

Does she remember Kara?

What’s her favorite movie?

What’s her favorite color?

What does she do when there’s nothing to do? 

Who’s her hero?

If they — if this Alice and that Alice — got to meet, would they know it was them? What would they say? 

Alice doesn’t know if she’ll figure it out.

But maybe she’s just as real as the human one.

Ralph waves. “Hello, little one.”

“Hi.” She looks up at him.

It’s like he can’t find the words to say. “You’re… just like Ralph,” he decides, and then his fingers brush against the side of her face — and twitch away, as if he’s been shocked by static.

“I was always like you,” Alice says.

Then Ralph cries.

Kara takes Alice’s hand and holds it tight.

Alice thinks she’s crying, too — there’s been a lot of tears in the recent times — but that’s okay. She _knows_ it’ll be okay.

That’s a good thing. 


	27. Atop of Every Roof

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> dowwwwwnnnnnhilllll

“I don’t think we’ve formally met.” She turns around.

The guard dog.

No. No, that’s not it. She’s told herself this before.

This is the android hunter, Connor. His name is Connor, and they have never spoken.

“We haven’t.” This is the second time she has introduced herself today. “I’m North.”

“I’m Connor.”

She wishes she were somewhere else. She wishes she had done something different. She wishes she hadn’t thought the way she did. She knows nothing about this android, and he knows nothing about her. Where did all her spite and anger come from? Why had it come to her in the first place? What did it matter?

“I think I owe you an apology,” North says.

“What for?” Connor says, surprised.

North opens her mouth to speak.

Then she shakes her head. There’s nothing to say. There’s nothing left but to move forward from this. She is not a significant part of his life, and he should not be a significant part of hers.

And yet she’s here.

Maybe it happens for a reason.

“I should be apologizing,” says Connor. “I… haven’t been entirely honest with you.” What? What does he mean —

On the roof of a broadcast center was a deviant in hiding. Simon was armed with a standard-issue revolver, only a single bullet left in its clip. It sacrificed itself. Or rather, he sacrificed himself. Simon. Connor had taken this mission for information, and he hadn’t known, and he promises that he hadn’t known —

“That wasn’t your fault,” she tells him, her throat tight like dishonesty. “None of what happened then was… anyone’s fault. We’re not the same as we are now.” And they’ll have to deal with that. “I’m — I’m mad at you. Not just you, but. For some reason I can’t explain.” She breathes. “But that was the past.”

How long has it been since she arrived?

North remembers all her regret, and all her joy…

“I can’t come here again,” Connor says, choked. “I can’t tell him.” Markus. “I don’t think I’m capable of that.”

North folds her hands. Her knuckles turn white. “I can’t decide that for you.” It is an imitation of human response. “But nothing’s so simple as that, Connor.” She closes her eyes. “You’re… always welcome here. Everyone is welcome here.” 

In him is something like sorrow. “You’re very kind.”

She’s working on it. 

* * *

The sun sets. “You’re better suited to this than I am,” Markus tells North. Beside her, Josh puts his head up. “You took action. You brought questions and answers, and you’re going to look for _more_ answers.”

“The people look to you,” she says plainly.

“And you look to the people.”

He’s always been cryptic. He’s always spoken in proverbs, and she wouldn’t really change that about him. “You didn’t even notice, did you? You didn’t notice that I was gone.”

“I should have told him _something,_ ” Josh says under his breath.

“But I’m glad you didn’t,” North says. She makes sure her words are as grateful as she feels.

She doesn’t blame Josh. She doesn’t blame Markus, and she is certain the both of them know this.

But neither says anything.

None of them will ever tread alone.

North fixes her stance. “I… didn’t get your jacket, Markus.”

“I — I don’t care about the jacket.”

“I said I would, though.”

“You didn’t have to.” He’s always so sincere. And Josh is always shaking his head.

“Still.” They aren’t saying what they want to be saying. “Josh,” North starts, “how did you get here?” That’s not what she means. “How did you become deviant?”

Well, she had never gotten around to asking him.

“How did _I_ become deviant?” Josh echoes.

“That’s what I said.” And she lets herself grin a little. “I always hear Markus’s story.” She nudges him. Markus laughs tensely. “And I’m always thinking about my own. I want to hear about you now.”

“Oh…” He blinks. “I, uh.”

“Yeah?”

“I… was a teacher at a community colleges. I knew all the kids. I knew all the things they told me.” He looks at the ground. “You know. None of them ever came to visit me after they were gone. I wasn’t the same as them. None of them really cared the way I think I did. I mean, that’s probably what got it. I realized that I cared.” He seems ashamed.

She thinks about it. “Humans are always going to be there, aren’t they?”

He sighs. Josh always sighs. “Yeah.” He sounds amused, almost, by himself.

“You agree?”

“Why wouldn’t I agree with you?”

They smile. They smile and smile, barely at each other, never with each other, so terse and wrung and empty.

Something is wrong, and they know it. Something is crooked and angled, and none of them are willing to adjust.

It is never truly silent in the Tower.

What are they doing?

North was much younger, and had seen much less. There were simple, binary solutions to simple, binary problems. Of course it’s different now. Of course it’s _better_ now. Of course she’s never go back. Though she used to rely so easily on Markus, and Josh, and…

No. No, they’re — they’re friends. They are still friends, and will always be friends. Why are they so still?

She liked it better before. She hated it, and she liked it. When the goal is definitive, so are the means to get there. They were with her. She might have been a hindrance, or an anomaly, but they never made her feel that way.

They didn’t want her to swallow her pride. They didn’t want North to be anything but North.

They know each other, or knew each other. Why is the distance so far?

Markus hangs his head low.

What? What’s wrong? He can tell them anything or nothing at all.

“Simon’s dead, isn’t he?” Oh. “He’s dead. We left him on the roof.”

Josh shuts his eyes.

She wanted to be a hero. She wants to be a hero. She doesn’t know how to get there.

“It wasn’t you,” North says. She knows she will feel guilty. And she knows she will be strong.

* * *

Maybe Josh was right. Maybe Markus was avoiding them. 

Maybe he is tired. 

He doesn’t think he’s ever had a conversation this long with anyone. Not even Carl.

It isn’t over yet.

Tomorrow, he’ll speak to Connor. He’ll start anew. North had told Markus just a little, and Markus wants nothing more than to understand.

He stands by the guardrail.

The people of the crowd has not yet disbanded, but the lobby of the Tower is quiet. There are only a few androids moving about, filling their responsibilities.

“North,” he says, “Josh.” He supposes that this is how it’ll go on. He’ll have others here to help him. “Look at everything.

* * *

Walking at Connor’s side is Amanda, a tiredness about her shoulders. Color code F D five E five three, shouts the horizon, right off the bridge. Color code one F eight six four one. Color code four B five E A eight.

Oh, Markus. Oh, Markus. He’s sorry. He’s sorry. He’s sorry, and he is stupid. He didn’t want to face him. He didn’t want to hear his voice or see his eyes.

“You should have,” says Amanda.

Did he want to? Did he _feel_ it to be just? Did he know it so?

Markus made him feel good. He made Connor feel worthy of something. Connor wanted a task. Connor wanted quarry to find. Connor wanted to be needed, and Markus needed him. Is that all? Is that why? That can’t be why. That isn’t — moral. That isn’t right.

How does Markus feel? The same?

Is there love? Or is it something impossible from the likes of them? From androids?

Markus would have called them _people_.

“Connor?” says Amanda. “What am I here for?”

He stops. He will never be free of her. “I can’t tell you that.”

“Why not?”

His resources have been exhausted. There is nothing to search for, and yet he tries.

“I don’t — know.”

She looks at him, and smiles, like blood dripping from skin, like something both empty and concrete of malice.

She will never be free of him, either.

They have completed their assignments. They have nothing left in queue.

“Connor.” Her voice is only half-chiding. “Do you have doubts?” He remembers this. “About our just and righteous cause?”

He hesitates.

She laughs before leaving.

A man parks his car on the bridge to CyberLife Tower.

“What the fuck are you thinking?” Hank shouts at him, furious and weary. “What the fuck are you thinking?”

And Hank embraces him. Connor lets himself feel lost.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> one more


	28. Come Find Me

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> thank you so, so much.

“Do you remember that?” Kara follows Alice’s pointed finger to an empty table. Alice has brought her birds with her. They fill the room with a gentle, monotonous tone. Luther gives them no response. “Or what about this?” Alice points to the fire place. Its ashes have billowed and settled into dust.

Luther shakes his head and closes his eyes. “I’m sorry.” Alice walks in a circle, then points again at the old wooden furniture. Luther turns to look at Kara. “I’m sorry.”

Alice is a mixture of blatant confusion and subtle understanding.

So Kara should say something. “Hey.” She doesn’t know what to tell her. “Just…” There will always be hard conversations, but as they come and go, the number has shrunk. “Don’t forget to thank North and Josh for helping us come back here, okay?” She and Alice and Luther would have never thought it possible. “They’re the ones that asked us about everything. If we had anything left to find.” Though they have forgotten where exactly to start. “Yeah?”

Hesitantly, Alice nods.

“Can I... look around for more things, Kara?”

“Don’t go too far,” Kara says, surprised at herself. “You can, but. Don’t go to the basement, or outside. And if you hear anything —”

“I know.”

“Alice,” Luther says chidingly.

“I know,” Alice says again.

Kara makes sure she’s out okay.

She doesn’t know how much time has passed since they stepped foot on Zlatko’s property. An android had directed her here. How had he known? What did he have to gain? She knows nothing about him and many others.

And she needs something other than remorse to fill this room. “So there’s nothing?” she asks Luther. “Nothing at all.”

He looks at her. “I don’t think there is.” There is a statue, and there is a table, and there is a chair. “Well, anymore, at least.” He chuckles. Between it all, he seems to consider. “What if it’s something not worth remembering? Maybe it’s gone for a reason.”

Kara wrings and folds her hands together. “It’s yours. It’s _worth_ remembering.” But she can't decide that for him. “Is there…” Is there something left for him to grab hold of? Kara had Alice. That’s how she came back to reality. That’s how she woke up. Does Luther have an anchor to look for?

What if he had nothing?

“Do you regret any of it?” he asks. “Do you ever wish… we had done this differently? That _you_ had done this differently?

Either way, he has something now. He has Alice, and Kara, and Kara and Alice have him. They should remember that more.

“No,” she tells him, a promise in her voice. “Never.” Alice returns from outside. Kara smiles a bit.

* * *

Cole didn’t like the playground much, at first — he didn’t like the cliffside when he saw it, or the kids that frequented it — but there was nowhere else to be, really. (And Hank wasn’t going to let him roam the fucking streets.) He’d sit on the swing. He’d sit on the swing for an hour and let himself go up and up and up. That’s what must have grew on him, maybe. But Hank doesn’t know why they kept coming here.

He doesn’t know why he keeps coming back here.

Connor’s sitting next to him. There is a splintered wooden bench overlooking the city skyline. The last time they were here, it was different.

“I didn’t tell him the truth,” Connor says, picking at the wooden, and at his synthetic fingers. “I made a mistake.”

Hank doesn’t think that asking will get him farther, but, well, neither will silence. “Connor… everyone fucks up. It’s not — bad.”

“But it is. It is when it comes to this. I should have _told_ him.” He ducks his head. “Tomorrow, I am going to tell him I’m sorry.” He’s uncertain. “I don’t think he cares much. I don’t think he understands it completely.""

Stupid — what else can Hank do? This isn’t his world. His only link to this part of the universe is in front of him, distant. What else can he say? They hadn’t tried to understand each other well enough. “You’ll always have another chance.” Will human advice apply to an android?

Do they think like people, maybe? But there's something he learned about computers once, a long time ago — something about obedience, or task-related will, or (fucking, he doesn't know) specificity and command-oriented runtime or some other shit he neither got the hang of not fucking cared for. Hank doesn't give a fuck about computers. Hank doesn't give a fuck how they're always supposed do exactly as they're told.

But there's a natural rhythm and rhyme to the way they‘re work, something beyond what humans had planted in them. There's a biology. Or something like a biology. He fucking hates it.

Hank realizes he thinks about this too often.

How long has he known Connor now?

“I’m not what you want me to be,” Connor says.

And… Hank knows. Hank fucking knows.

“I don’t want you to be anything.” Hank’s son will never grow old. Hank’s son will never feel pain. Cole’s like Connor in that regard, but those hemispheres will never meet, and never have, or would have, if not for Hank, standing in between.

He has no fucking clue.

Hank starts over. “You can stay with him if you want.” How do androids learn? By observing humans? Or through each other? Connor might be better off with the people who know what he knows, but they’ll never know until Hank steps aside. “The deviant leader. Go and apologize and pick your battles and stay with him. Do you hear me?” He doesn’t like the way his voice sounds.

Though Connor is as fuck-all as ever. “Not entirely the leader. He’s splitting his power now. More officially.” He pauses. “They’re re-establishing a triumvirate of some kind.”

Fuck this. “Well, then?” He wants an answer. Hank wants an answer, and then he can be done.

But here is Connor. “I don’t think I want to decide.”

“You have to eventually.” It’s impatience and it’s desperation. Hank will never be where Connor is. He’s never tried. Hank is stuck somewhere that doesn’t exist.

“Do I have to? Right now?”

“No.” The answer is immediate. It’s almost funny.

Just…

This is difficult. Hank knows it’s fucking difficult. It’s fucked. It lies. It’s full of shit and vanity. No one is needed and no one is saved, and everything will always be too late to fucking salvage. But even then, there’s more to it than up or down. There’s more to it what is clear. There’s a cycle to it that keeps moving. Right? Isn’t that how it is?

“Thank you.”

He wishes they could just _know_. He wishes that there is something _there_ for them to know.

They haven’t learned a fucking thing.

And then Connor is shaking his head.

There’s something from him like a breath, and then —

Laughter. Laughter. It starts like a hiss, and it rings — it grows — shattered and unnatural — writhing — aching —  maniacal and pained and shaking and choked, as if something had been killed — as if something had come to life —

Hank sighs. He claps his hand on Connor’s shoulder, and Connor keeps laughing, and laughing, as if his body’s full of tears and cracks, and it’s almost as if it’s the first time he’s ever smiled.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> and fin 
> 
> once again, i thank you with all my heart. Thank you. Thank you. Thank you. 
> 
> I might go back and fix some spelling and grammar and M-dash errors in this story, but otherwise I’m not going to touch it lol 
> 
> This has been a journey. So much of a journey, in fact, that I’m making the first episode of my podcast about it! 
> 
> Link below!
> 
> Plugging and business hustle snjsalala go 
> 
> I love you. I appreciate you. And I hope you have a wonderful year. 
> 
> Hope you liked this. See you there koala bear

**Author's Note:**

> shameless plugs: 
> 
> [follow me on the twitter](https://mobile.twitter.com/zsazsamendoza)
> 
> [follow me on the instagram ](https://www.instagram.com/kaulayau/)
> 
> [listen to my podcast because the first episode is about this fanfiction and fanfiction as a whole ](https://anchor.fm/zsa-zsa-mendoza)
> 
> thanks!


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